Monday Night - Ligthning Holes

Lightning they call this. Thunder. Rain. There's real danger in this. Lulls and pauses that dramatists are noting for malevolent pace. Never heard rain sound so frightened, so keen to get down; never seen a moon look so guilty for being a part of this ripping of paddock-size sheets into a night stripped back in a flash of cloud, made so white as to render it cloudless. I've opened the window: this eager spree of rain descending; a long dragged sheen of thunder splitting itself with electric glee, articulating mountainsides and the desert's long curiosities. Its creeping toward the city. In from over the island. And I with it wait wet for little spires to explode. Great storm. Reply to ventures up north. To holes in old ground big as storm clouds.

Sunday - A Most Sunday

Knew a racing car driver. Believed in God. His faith had him comprehend what he was doing. He was racing for glory, to extend to his people the spirit of His beneficence, and to better become a man - a holy one. His belief shaped him; shaped his day, made comprehensible to himself and all others every act and thought that came through his life. His belief made sense of him. And it finally killed him. So strong was his belief, it left him no alternative. You can quit you know, a friend told him, No I can't he replied. His belief was like a train; like an unstopping rhythm. Far bigger than him. It made him. And it destroyed him. In flames at 320 km/h. I now ask do you risk a life of belief, knowing it will give your life it's perfect shape; knowing it will give meaning to every detail of your life, knowing when the story ends, when the conclusion comes, you're finished? Or, do you live empty, fragments, long? Do you live on the wheel, I ask?

Thursday Night - What Curious Wednesday

It'll be the that which chisels your name into your concrete upright slab, upwards from your down there head. It is that which vibrates the white right now, out from this screen, sending with it all these words into your brain by eyes: yes, no, think, imagine, believe, wonder, what.... Curiosity will kill me: the screenwhite buzz of it, heading for the slab. Keep me alive all the way and then do me in. Slip right in and under my senses, corrode every reasoned rationale and rational reason, thought, belief, imagining. Curiosity. To it I a cat. Saying no, not that, could kill me, could kill him. And I'll believe it, after reasoning, after imagining.... Then I'll begin to walk in the act of this reasoned rationale, hard inside boots on solid floor, just as curiosity comes abuzzing; comes a white-buzz way through and on to that slab. Conjuring me from ways from waydowns below, to do this, or that, instead. See jobs drop away down there, and see people, friends; see countries and bank-accounts and too-too many mores to count all becoming fastly, thiss, and thats.... Curiosity kills me living, I that cat.

Thursday Afternoon - For Wednesday

Right down. Plus one more right down more. Over the right down and one more a proscenium hovers. Each shadow casting a series of left down and down mores. Each each, an unsheltering color. All this Wednesday says. All this says, said.

Tuesday Night - Under Moon

Today's lost control of itself again, and tomorrow's taking advantage of it, in the form of another tonight, pushing against all in it's path as it drags forth another morning. Pushing to the window the reflection of this room; pushing into the river ripples and a white moon-drag; pushing into these keys this moonroom mind. Wondering where it's going.

Monday Night - Rain Bourbon

Window rattle: replaced with whistling under the door issuing from 3 echoes running the sides of the flat, out from tonight's lightening show, hurled across from an orchestral dusk that Webern would have struggled articulating - but Faulkner would have nailed it: a bourbon of cloud harassing a sun too round and sinking to care; a bourbon of cloud unwanted by a sky above, so it rained below itself tossing parrots and hurling crows; a bourbon of cloud drunk on the stench of rain from a summer blacktop, tinge pink under a greying lambast.

Sunday Afternoon - Writing To Writing Not

Pulled through fingers, the writing stops at  keys - hit-hit - then timelessly becomes part of the screen. Or, pulled by fingers thoughts become writing that - hit-hit - timelessly, er, oh,...: writing. What is it I ask? Writing to friends perhaps.... One in  New York, one  Tokyo, one in Seoul. And one whose place he can't name.... But the hit-hit here is of a summer heat, spread  by a sky of Titian blue, making me damn sure I'm not in New York; is of a quietness that's pinned by a single bird-song outside, making me sure I'm not in Seoul; and by utter space - so no Tokyo. All writing me into this place, which is I guess, a name. A week, into a day, that's leaking yesterday, and shaping up tomorrow. All, writing.

Wednesday Night

Thursday morning calls through this night, to this morning, which was actually last night, lost.

Wednesday Morning

Writing. Writing as. Writing as architecture, building, walls and weeds. And leaves. Falling and rotting and disintegrating. Like the word Monday, or Tuesday.

Sunday Night

Draft saved. Draft. Edit. Edit. Type, type, type. Edit. Draft. End
Doubt. Day 2. Edit. Day 3. Edit. Day 4. Draft. Saved,

Saturday Afternoon

I'm not the remote-control car being whizzed by the kid next door. I'm not the raven crowing a black line call to his distant mate. Or the big motorbike my neighbor is tuning - again. Or the leaves making long water sounds in that tree. Or the remote-control kid's father shouting faster, faster. I'm the shouting. I'm that sound. I'm the tuning of the bike. It's vibrations are my movements within flesh. I'm the crow of the raven as I move to shut this window, and the silence where that whizz was.

Saturday Morning

One with the other. The other, the other. One as that, that as this, this as one. Water as writing. Writing as water.  Not with or from, but as. Liquid. And early somehow, and brief. And not typing either. A held scattering: held in the cup of a hand and swallowed to the neck as it is held by the mind and hand to the pen and diluted by the page...  Swallowed, pissed, read, remembered, forgot, again.

Friday Night

Typing. Being typed. Hitting keys. Plastic hitting fingers. Hitting plastic fingers. And on....

Thursday Night

Blog. To blog. To boldly blog when-and-where no-one's blogged before. To ignore the night black against the window, and blog. To ignore the neighbor's noises below, and blog. To hum with the TV's hum and to blog. To fall back off the floor - blog. To suck-oneself  from one's shadow - to blog. And to beat the words to it - to blog. As I blog before I bow, and  blog before I blog. Post-pre-blogging....

To type with the blogosphere underneath these keys, to see if they'll type something new....