Stroke
Stroke (9/16-21/2001. St. Francis Hospital Poughkeepsie, NY, Rhinecliff, NY) black ink fantastic tangle of minatory tubes subject to pressures of mind— tensions and distensions of a world release radical interrupts in chaos itself— Strike One! and the eyeball seems to bugle from its socket and images slide away in double deficit— When will the hammer fall a second time? What range of world elided or eliminated outright? Mind falls into world, world launches missiles back at mind. The Towers of Extancy hoard all the being they can as if being were substance and measured thereby. There is a little panel in the intellect whose rotating dials and levers measure extancy and another darker panel back of that where being’s ranges and categories are decided. The ghost without a hand can turn these dials— the one by measure ruled and read the other by a kind of absolute dead-reckoning moved toward world or away back to that which feeling searches for home— an open radiance watching through the meshes of thought and world but spaced by love to reach the spaces in all other beings and lead them home blue ink murky liquid looked at long until the mud wall’s small gleams intensify—triangles of silver hot to the mind— mind burned by sharp edges of the light— draw it up from the little glimmer until brightness hiding in the tiny gleams burn the mind that draws it up and out How can light burn the mind? But the mind pulled it out of itself straining its own possibility—that’s how! until major lesions streak the thought-flesh The mind’s own edge alarming its right to be light— inside itself the mind as light is sharp as diamond tough and ever-growing harder and more bright— the clenching intellect the riveting intensity the keenness wounds the possibility thereof until all is edge and keenness and the teeming feral darkness of the wold wherefrom that brightness first took gleam falls back into itself and seems no more When mind was parked as parcels mixed in murky liquid swirling indistinct from element and muddy textured wall before all face— Appearances were flat as they were. No lightnings crashed the ordinary. The originary groaned with debile process. Sparks adhered to resins. Aged vessels sat on aging ledges. Then— river of tetrahedrons flowing from a point gold and silver alternate bordered by triangles of silver and gold river of cuboids— intensifications of themselves— coherent blotches of light in turbulent blackness. Writing is violence. It draws from turbulent blackness cuboids of light— checkerboard swatches of intensity edging out absence— the field of loud I Am that grows ever more distinct trumpeting edgeless edge and will not die. red ink Whence this incursion on the visual field? This incisive oval of geometrical light that scares me with the mad distress of “the origin”—as if I could see thereby the lesion itself—the tear in the minatory tangle of vessel and tissue—a singular violence distressed from the physical object of myself—the thought of the tangle in which it is posed by thought itself—invisible thought of selfhood—hyper- spatial to the tear and to its terrible ovoid incursion into its own thought flesh. From what but the action itself enunciated now as a vibrating inset of an order unintelligible to the object it disturbs— as if the “I” itself were incised in its intuition or the hyper-space of its occurrence were inscribed in a vicious act that is no act but a thing from that other zone where terrors spring —thus “I” must die to heal the lesion of its own increasing clarification and the afterspace that includes its violent incursion return to the space before the space before all violence began. thick ink words without purpose the embarrassment of apparently real contingencies / asleep on the cool embankment— now ascend to the highest rank— the empty empty; the clarity; the breath at home with the bodily meshes and hulk it happens to be breathing in— the largesse at large in the tangle of cause and consequence or purpose and embarrassment— contingencies the meshes of the snare / the alphabet of contingency scrambled so the noise of speech—speech noise— You can’t get out of the coil of speech noise and the mind that eggs it on—turning about its axis and attempting to SAY the state it wants to have and be wanting to think out with mind brush and mortar and pestle of intellect the possible rank—IMpossible and RANK! The gargoyles leaping from the forehead! The bouncers and the barkeeps locked up with the brawlers in the brawl! If I knew it why not get on a bus and go without delay to the city beyond concomitance— the luminous Room in The Hull of the Ship of Truth— the moon man aloof in the saddle shining shining bounteous grace rays down hospital hallways sneaking glances and casting beams into desperate units where groans and miseries turn on their axies and the minds of medics are disjoined from the bodies they’ve wired. Why not get in the cab of the big truck in furious exodus to comport oneself home on the bluenight highway? no ink strings and nerves and roadways bundled in a tangle snakes and phospherescent insects ___ the remembrance of light when things leapt up from themselves long ago in the dawn of __ ______— ____ _____—it is— the singular rife orb released from the tangle mind saddled on being without digression or part galloping dayward just ink a ball of tangled “yarn” or nerves or vessels themselves the course and the message the singular message of self-luminous Orb tigle chenpo totality coursing through each span the orb returns to the tangle knotted yarn’s impossible story anomalous timed to burst function to break down the furious space between the crossing strands that things are ripped out of their nature when the message explodes in the channel the mindful light of the space through which it courses breaks into the coursing When earliest intellect awakens in the telling the oldest gods pass before the Face (care nothing but for the moment of this passing even in death the “green cloths” solicitous friends disarmed launching the world against its own form