Snipped slapped slopped

Oh – the flaps of thy cheeks may oft spat forth the chips of thy shoulder – and yet if one loops one’s tongue around thy cheek’s cauldron then so it may be said simply that a shift in a story may shuffle out the story to shove the reader.

To the field, the field: why are we drawn to this empty field? What is here amongst grass and what do these breezes wish to touch? Nothing here but the buzzing of insects and the screams of these swift migrant birds. The birds whistle as steam forced through a hot aperture: Send News Send News Send News. Yet the birds are bound to their freedom, this flight cannot be stilled, and so they never hear the news.

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The screams and the foregone news. Foregrounded and forgotten, the screams.

The screams and the flight are aligned to the stars.

The darkness of these birds, a feathered void. At night they are sucked up, darkness toward darkness; pinned to transit by the violence of stars. The day is for chasing. The birds chase forgetting, weaving around the axial certainty of a thermal. At night the darkness of the bird is stabbed by stars. A feathery void is punctured, and screams escape through these cold apertures.

Oh – the flaps of thy cheeks may oft spat forth. The spasms of mouth drooled over yon page. Thy creased dignity shoved down the lacey tricksy of thy tongue. And the loop de-loop of this fire; how do we ever unpick it?

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Dear Farrah – poor pilgrim – pedestrian progress.

 

Are we in the cavemouth or are we rolling down the hill like Jack and Jill? Are we turning into the dark, holding aloft a feeble candle, and deciding to walk – right now – into the belly of a mountain?

 

Bunyan was in jail. And he was in jail. Was this the cave?

 

I am told John Bunyan was a Non-Conformist. This mode of non-conformism plays a particular part in the history and construction of England.

 

To be a writer is to be on an ever-dangerous slide towards fantasy. As the deeper slopes of the cave are made simultaneously fertile and poisonous because of copious bat guano, so too the writer’s imagination.

 

I cannot answer my question about the author of Pilgrim’s Progress; and yet he strode in his own being as well as in his imagination.

 

To not abandon the body. To keep hold of our haptic extension even within the slippery gestures of descent, to roll and tumble in another direction: is this ever possible or is this another form of the ever-dangerous?

 

Again, we protest that here in this journeying; in the rolling, the tripping, and in striding through such rank vales, so there must be gathered from this travel a poetry that lends itself to transformation.

 

Originating cradle of being: an honoured death site, a surety of rebirth.

The original waters never cease.

It is about diving, drinking, drowning.

To be deeply seduced by this singular oblivion which announces new birth.

 

Dear Farrah,

Only five years ago you were given this book.

Where are you now?

The dedication reads: May you continue to grow in Him and walk closely with Him.

Your sponsors were happy in witnessing this pivotal moment; your baptism. They were happy and yet they bought you an old book. Perhaps it was their own book they were handing down to you?

 

It is an old book, written in another England.

 

It is an old printing. Not an ancient or historic printing, just old. I do not locate a date in the book. The book I am referring to is not the abstract thing, not the story as a rarefied presence, but it is this paperback. Here is a soft and grubby paperback with a brief handwritten text on the title page. The script is for you. The writing is dedicated to you, dear Farrah.

 

It is an ageing book. An object becoming old.

I do not locate a date in the printed book, none apart from the date of your baptism. The pages in this book are dotted brown and yellowing.

 

This handwritten dedication must indicate an adult baptism. Here is text made precious not by commodity but by understanding. This is handed unto you, Dear Farrah, for encouragement. From now. To continue the journey. From this moment. This text to accompany you unto a great elsewhere.

 

Already you have gone to an impossible place. In baptism there is death, a going down. Here a descent which swiftly drags one past bat shit and down, further, to a depth that can be reached by no other conscious means.

 

Come alive, Dear Farrah, come alive from out this plunge and receive. Receive into your hand this book written out of the strictures of imprisonment. A spacious place is shown, vastness which can only be born out of constriction.

 

You held this book Farrah, but did you run away from it? Or were you given so many versions of this self-same text that your shelves became embarrassed and, one by one, those surplus items were to be disposed of?

Are you the pilgrim?

Are you running and seeking, both at the same time?

Are you shedding all that is worldly, even this frail paperback?

Lost and guided, each in an instant: O pilgrim of the lost, found in the losing of all.

 

As I walked through

the wilderness of this world

 

I lighted

I lighted on a certain place

A certain place where there was a den…

 

And, as I slept

There was a den

And I slept

And I dreamed a dream

 

I, your dear friend, am in myself undone

 

I your friend undone

By reason of a burden that lieth hard

 

Lieth hard on me

A burden.

 

We are seeking, and we are creating a new element, a radically different atomic structure. The squeezed shapes of an age.

A new element from a different geometry.

We are the creating of this new element, our joining is a different geometry.

This is the familiar fitted together in an unfamiliar fashion; its aroma pervades all things and yet the senses learn to distinguish things not by what they are but by whatever aspect suits our egoism… Only when consciousness deduces a joy foreign to every principle of temporal utility do we begin to discern the mystical significance of waves, crystals, stars…

 

In the cave we met people.

In the cave we met people in the form of a bull, a lion, a bear and a deer. From the cave we turned around and saw not the comforts of a campfire but, beyond beyond: a moon and many stars, a signal and all gesture, our compass and the unreeling of all wilderness.

Our good people stood close by.

For the sight of good people to them that are going on pilgrimage, is like to the appearing of the moon and the stars to them that are sailing upon the seas.