Wednesday Proved

Wednesday proved - I'm sure it will - to have little of Tuesday. The day which incidentally, proved, against the assumption of  Monday's Loss, not to be Monday's loss at all. Seems Tuesday awaits another role.... But Wednesday - I'm sure - will prove to be, little of Tuesday. All thoughts are, as I type, leaning forward: into this computer-screen, out that door, down the highway to the rest of the week.... Even the first thoughts of today, as my eyes were peeled by the sunrise, were of only an hour before: a dream where de Niro was teaching technique next-door, full of action-as-thinking, and shouting, and bumping, before he returned to the pool area where I was sat, watching a slim pale dart of a young blonde thing drop into the crystal blue California pool. He dove in. Just before that sunrise. Which I'm sure will happen tomorrow. Not again. But it will. As it did yesterday. Therefore, this morning's sunrise, yesterday's loss? And with the certainty of Wednesday's sunset coming, will it prove today's already losing?

Monday's Loss

Now I've written the title, what to do. How to follow that? I mean OK, it's Monday, but 'Monday's Loss'. Sunday perhaps; Monday's Loss is Sunday. Or, yesterday, yes. No. Doesn't fit. I think tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday's loss. Because when we think about tomorrow, dream of it or speculate, there's a little bit of Monday being replaced in the mind, with what might just be Tuesday. Which is Monday's Loss.

SUMMARY A OVERVIEW

All typing - not writing - here, to date, and hereon, attempts, catches, types.... Examples of the style of writing - in typing - I'm working at in my work as an artist. What I'm trying to do is write a moment as it comes through, unencumbered by thought, assertion, naming, intention, ideology..... The weight of what usually comes with writing. No, what I'm doing is closer to the Oriental notion of writing the spirit; closer to something Merleau-Ponty wrote, about a writer not being foreign to that which he writes, (in both the spatial and  temporal sense); closer to Heidegger's 'language speaks', and I guess, closer to the  ideal of the Beats - Kerouac, Dylan - and the Jazz men of improvisation. Closer to presentation of this, not representation of that. Yes. What I'm doing is this.

Sunday night - and this too

words heard. words and words heard too. until the typing takes over. keys heard now. plastic taps. mingling with the words heard.... words seen now, echoing words heard, keys tapped. typing seen for words heard once, gone now, but in the screen buzz black little marks

Tuesday Night - Thread of a Man

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Thursday Again

Writing again - verbatim - what I wrote after writing this, without knowing what it is exactly, simply by predicting it. There is the risk of writing only what I could write; and there is the risk of writing what I won't; then of course there's the risk of writing what I do predict, although it might combine what I can't. What I predict then is this.

Wednesday's Ashes

Window open, on the couch, with the memories of a friend, who comes to me in ink. Curls my letters into writing and shapes the whiteness of the page, coloring pictures shaping my mind, of her walking with me somewhere, somewhere years ago - I can hear my neighbor's footsteps passing down below. My neighbor's gone now. Door closed, just a silence echoing night. Where are you I ask? Here, she replies. Too silent for me to hear. Silence words again, on pages that don't hear anymore. Where is she, I write, listen.