This
attempt to "pass through" the English language as a haruspex
(even Etrurian, a foreigner in Rome), from the very beginning proves
to be vain and hopeless: unarticulated syllables, an acronym tripping
up Beowulf, uncovered trunk-words, triple-lock syllable caskets…
It is like matching a circle and a square, a pyramid and an obelisk…
Well, ruining the ruins, such "vain and hopeless" attempt
finally promises the abandonment by the words where they were saluting,
to guarantee a well-entangled skein. Eventually, out of this English
the refined imprecision of the "mask" flickers, dramatis personae
greening over the dryness of initial trips, taken by the hand unto where
the origin leaps from the black hole of identity and inflames the "understanding"
of the inveterate dementia of "grasping concepts" [laugh].
Only such distance from the words allows them to keep themselves so
close to each other.
This suspended voice?where words are waves, apostrophes are the squeaks
of wooden ships, periods are the last breaths of those drowning…?not
adhering to itself, directs a tremulous compass hand towards words without
a role removed from the origin, a sky falling to earth, invisibility
that exists… Forget "understanding", here, either you're
lifted or the levitation of words keeps whirling?alas?around the gravity
of the symbolic. Thence, writing that separates thought from action,
yielding to the all-grinding machine of fluid, slipping to a healing
fever: you fool yourself into speaking, filling the void?inaccessible
but certain?of a place where words would like to dwell. A cave painting…
Once abandoned the initial gap of thought becoming word, here, where
sole and pavement compress the air (on a pilgrimage everything emerges…),
one has to creep: on this bank the form, on the other the content [laugh].
Give up words to retrieve them given back all together: resolving to
resolve nothing, everything becomes available. As always, Meister Eckhart
comes to our aid: "If you can see God, that's not God".