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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

03 Feb 2008 x 1:16 am

I’ve got a terrible secret that I cannot keep
I’ve got a terrible secret lurking in my sleep
The silent sycophant slowly slithers up the weary eye
Cradling the fawn of Temperance then bleeding it dry
Rubies so glorious How they gleam under such light
They’re more beautiful yet, by the breath of Erebus’s flight
Choppy turns the surface as the waters grow cold, Reveal
The leprous underbellies of all who once lived, the young and the old;
Fair Luna climbs higher, I hear an absolution filled with dread
Nothing can keep the Voices, her voices, out of my head
I’ve got a terrible secret that no one can keep
I’ve got a terrible secret I cannot sleep


I’m reminded of it everyday, when I smell the rain, the damp earth, the maltreated grass; when I wake up from the concomitant, quasi-realistic parallel that I hope you are aware of too. My boots are under my bed, abandoned and unwashed from the shame of Hong Kong. They said it was an experience of a lifetime and perhaps it was, in front of that many people, whichever gods as witnesses. All the memorabilia have been put away in a nondescript box, because one should never remember nightmares. (Or am I supposed to remind myself) In the end, what I truly remember only becomes a convolution of desires and disappointment. I am sorry. “I am Jack’s broken heart.”

Sometimes I almost feel the gravity of this situation manifesting itself in a different time and place, and I always wonder if it is possible to devolve, to transgress further than I already have. I know I will sleep tonight, eventually. Because there’s Milton, “How sweetly did he(they) float upon the wings/ Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night”, no ill-memory can touch me tonight. It reminds me of what I once wrote,

This is Erebus’s Flight.

[Edit: June 10, 2008]

The acceleration of the fall into the deep end of the beginning has never been swifter until yesterday. The nightmares are coming back, faster than I can run away from or against. The spaces between Space (or space between Spaces) are becoming (and almost is) one dark, psychosomatic nebular of hopelessness and yet I cannot possibly articulate it such that you, on the other end of Erewhon, can feel even a fraction of this impending gravity. The more I try, the less familiar I become to myself, and to everyone. I was finishing up The Prophet this morning, and maybe I can take comfort in his response to the Orphalese scholar, “For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.” I am only good at/for ambiguity. It didn’t leave me with an absolute revelation, but it sufficed for now and perhaps there will be something else different when I look back on today, on the past four months. I particularly like the final chapters of Prophet, it reminds me of so many things that I’ve tried to self-medicate through reading. Until I find another (am certain that I will), nothing yet comes close.

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