tom taylor - there you are in the cauldron of associations

There you are in the cauldron of associations, linked to the past by your own figure on the screen. It’s a slow withdrawal from the forefront into the security of the non, a place with neither figure nor time in the closet; a forged alliance with impropriety. It’s weird in its contradictions… ‘addicted to infidelity’ is kind of a double bind, wouldn’t you say, the first part being an insincerity of the most venial sort and the second basically a lie, which is equally venial, and so you are left with your hands empty at the altar of reductions, your heart beating wildly outside the body, on your sleeve, in the air beside you. Forgiveness, the seat of woe, the opening in the floor through which your gasses escape into the other regions, like fertilizer or restraint. I know, it’s a far struggle in the time after time, le temps après temps, from which we all descend on our way to the next room.
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So here’s the empty sign along the highway, the snow having blown in on the horizontal line to cover all the quadrangles and hyperthyroids and rhombuses on their four by four painted sticks as the sun comes up over the windshield. You just go from smaller road onto the larger, and you know that after some wandering, you’d find yourself next to a gas station with a warm bathroom and some gluesticks on the counter by the register where the fat girl watches your hands in both directions. The journey out from a center undescribed onto a flat plain where the rabbits roam at night toward the highway and the hooted owl screams your name over and over. The wilderness of the non is full of attributes and calm moments in the history of the planet; I’ve come this far with no roadmap, only a quotient for discovery and a drive locked into full rage, zero to sixty in about that…..
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I’m not too interested in the terms of my own derision, nothing can be done about that, it’s more in the eye of the beholder that these ruminations take place and then divide into parallel paths toward the same unknown, one in color, the other in black and white…. I’d had them, one day at a time, and into the secret hours are found the many in the one. Cars are lined up along the road while the paving crew locks down the journey from here to there as if it mattered how slowly they worked or that it was the weekend or some other diatribe on the line of attack. You park anew in the relative security of the barbed wire fence along your heart sealing off enemy advances from the security of your silence. Now the line bursts and your blood boils off the platter into steam and light and wine on the table of success. It’s a new day and your sentries have all fled into the misty air with their rifles unattached to anything but the resonant shouts from behind them to ‘come back…’
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The rack is stacked with complacent skeletons nailed to the wall by their captors as memories of better days. Here, love claims your name and pulls you forward one conversation at a time, the runner’s gleam a portent perfume on the skein of time itself laid open in the air around your well-meaning floods and stutters in the half light of today. This is the way around your name and into the coming tide rolling in slight curling rollers from just beyond the sand bar, surfers on the beach straining to dive into the white foamy tidal backwash where the tectonic trim cracks the sand into more powdery depths than can be measured at all. This hum of noon is still your hand in mine coming over the sand dunes with a memory of togetherness and unseen treasures as if the images themselves came from a world beyond memory and silence and into the present.