Intimate Stranger

WRITING IS FISHING

Writing is fishing for memory in time. Viscous. Time black. Sometimes you see it flitting just below surface — memory — miming time. Memory takes on the blackness of time. Memory will be time surfacing. Use word as bait. Beat the water. Beat the weird beat of baited words. Boated. Wounds. The bleeding words like wounded boats on a black sea. Let the fleet wash up. The coast is the beginning of the sea’s wisdom. It comes with the territory.

Words have their own territory, they return home as in a song. The fish only discovers the water once it is removed from it. This land a memotory.

But not peaceful. Memory as trigger for territory and tongue. The mind is full of bloody pieces staked out by tongue. Is there room enough? Memory killing memory.

Vicious. Terrortory. Territory comes from terre just as memory flows from mère.

And the sea. Sea is the beginning of the metamorphosis of the coast.

Let slip. It will all come out in the red wash of remembering. Invent roominess. Invent, vent, wind. Wind winding up mind with bated words.

Mind is dream coming home. Coming to mind. Mindcoming. Mindcome all over page. Mind coming to mind, minding itself and mending, muttering matter.

Book the writing. Make of book a dormitory full of time water. A dreamotory.

Wisdom of vices, virgins and vixens. The bloated bumping of drowned bodies just below the purpose. Terrier smelling fox barking at porpoises populating the Middle World just beyond moon. Shitty sheet. Copulating corpses.

Just over the lip.