One fable after another
dropped into the vessel, displacing the flow so that we may sup of that flow. And drinking thus, fables are uttered
one fable after another, dropped into the deep.
Well the deepness; eating from the water table we discover it is not level.
Where is the opening moment that allows allows? A cup placed on the water table is forced to become a boat, floating downstream. The bowl in this boat is a force, a flowing through which sees all the soup escaping. The cup and the bowl and the ship and the cave, the declivity of all this is buried until rocks are dropped into their hollows.
I am tired and so tired and it as if a great importance were put upon me. The energy I take to put it in the cave is enormous. To create the cave also, an aeon of digging, tiring and tiring, I wonder of the allowing and the allowing.
What is “it” in this cave? (And.) Where did I put the cave? (And.) Can such pits be easily lost?
The cave is related to the well and the well is related to the vessel and once the vessel chooses to stand on its head so we can see the kinship between vessel and balloon.
Rock related to water, fire related to air. Air breathes in rock, water runs within flame.
What did they do to Isope?
He told a story. The story of a burning door and the story of rocks which break themselves open and the story of the flow rising to kiss freely and deeply of this breath which has hidden at the bottom of you lungs.
“Run him off the cliff!” They shout crux and defenestrate; the ugly man has stolen a chalice. This cup in my bag? I thought it was a story you wanted, how can you hear any story without first drinking deeply? How can you drink deeply if you do not first hold a cup? You say this cup is the chalice, and you say life is brimming over of it. Surely the life of such waters are but a story, unless and until they are drunk thereof.
So this is how annoying authors are dwelt with, and the Isope of this fable lived before the term author ever truly existed. Perhaps the term author only came about as he was suicided off a cliff? (Yes, he must have slipped, and these creative types are always so, pardon the pun, “jumpy”.)
In the fable the conclusion is always allowed and only allowed. The conclusion is open.
In the crafted tale the task is to extract a simple shape from the multitudinous plenty of the real; fables are therefore akin to choreography.
The dance is extracting a shape in order to slot it again another.
Another to another, shapes slot into shapes, and these animated otherings are shape of the real. Rock water fire and air; shape to shape, shape from shape reeling over a consciousness we sometimes call a page or sometimes call a stage.
Dancing across the page: alphaalphaalphabet………..
Be a detail, dare the chance, caress exulting free existence:
Reality is the alchemy of expectation.
The alphabet is the scoundrel’s last resort.
All poets are scoundrels.