tom taylor - meditation of anabasis

10.20.08 “Yes, my book vaast bin has a similar feel, I think to the psykes in the night. I am interested in the idea of the lyric and the line too; the sound of it when the code is the text and text is the code. so as a kind of programming, of sorts. sound programming. discrete matter stretched out--- but quantum, in that flickering sense of inside outside yes no, et cetera--the 1 and the 0. I try to make it move, as it moves, like a spaceship. Was watching Cosmos whilst on codeine from arm surgery and was laughing at Sagan in that made for tv spaceship. it was amazing. I always thought of the vaast bin poem-book as a kind of spaceship.” — Michael Peters
Thinking itself a kind of adventurous circuit, the heart beating on the floor of your own desire. The books on the shelf are a kind of soothing presence, as is the same degree of work filled each volume impressed beyond reason itself into a mystery which is always infallible or at least present. You were here inside me on many occasions, speaking from a distance of two or three light years we fly at will into this absence or broken arc descending from a higher flower in the trees indicating that all will be well as soon as the finalities are shaken out from their distinctions. This is the empty shadow on the door indicating the presence of some palpable spirit. You can’t have a shadow without something to cast it, to get between the sun and the eye of the beholder forgotten in his skin from the crowded streets, unrelenting resemblance cools and clicks the air along the walls is blowing from left to right, smudging the shadow like an inkblot from any part it might have had in world history I’d stopped here thinking there wasn’t anything left to do, but the smothering arm of boredom got me down on the floor in a stranglehold of silence I finally had to break. The soothing presence of books to my left and the sun reflecting my blue shirt from the screen so I can’t see what I’m writing, it’s a gong show from one end to the other with chuck barris squeaking the buzzer every time I start anything… but what else is new, eh?
The initial of any clause in beginning would be its repetition and persuasion of the absolute within its pressure to be real… still the angels slide and glue themselves against the sides of the room without any reckoning or persistence toward the real. Anything would say that. but then you ask, ‘save it for what?’ this would definitely be the time to speak, however lame it might appear to be. A frustration from your own deeper realms fusses into vision and calls you out to deal with your own stuff, there’s no end to it, this meditation of anabasis. Whatever has been begun may now be completed, there’s no longer any mystery about it, about the clamoring present with its myriad comments on itself, it gets a little old, this incredible self-importance of the present moment as it revels in its own capacities for reflection and obfuscation lined up on either side of the hall, how much is really known anyway? The self assurance of the speakers lining up is off the wall however you hear them, the spokes people of this bygone age where the water slowly disappears and the little animals as well shrink into memory and television images of dying planets.
Stop buzzing. Leave the door ajar for the messenger from the other realm to enter and sing his song in your good ear. The truck has been hauled off to the crusher, the motor gone dry of oil in a parallel stroke action to what happened inside me. O wel, it’s a slow moon at the outset and she calls out from my dream life to come again and stay in the slow lane and let love decide the answers to the questions you never asked me in the silence of the haloed hours, theirs too. Now is the specific moment of destiny we all inhabit, slow as it may be. I’ve come here with you to seek answers to these questions.