Letter to Sandy

--And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;

___Voyages II, Hart Crane







the fall/the leap, amalia chimera

dear sandy,

several problems. all out of order, (1) am craving some cereal bad, real bad. like. (2) tired, tempted to sleep, and although all the windows in my room are open, the blinds open enough so that people can see me walking around half-naked and also let in some of the breeze (because, afterall, what good are open windows if blinds are closed like it being day time and you having your eyelids shut?) and despite that, and despite new bedsheets that still crunch a little, and dreamy milk-dark night that is gentle and smooth still seem prickly and i wary of night. a little rift between us seems unresolved. and even though i know my dreams are the stuff of vomit and unremembered nights and dust-covered antiques in the back of rooms no one visits and hazy unstructured mannequins and blurrred images of no-ones and no-ones doing nothings and nothing, i still can't find it in myself to peacefully roll over and say 'goodnight you fu*&er Sunday'. (3) i can't don't won't wanna canna finna write somehting to write about. Which has been a major problem for a little while now and i try and try and it's all rubbishy blllaaahhhs what's coming out of my head now. just shadows of the ideas i have somewhere hidden. someone shine a light in my ear, out the other side we might see eclipsed amoebae floating about -

what am i talking about? (am i? (am i? (who?, where?)

tired tired, boredome game, music the same lame,
unfinished cannot tame sunday from monday, shame fear and horrified (the future's upon us yet again and when'd we ever realize the past was too craven to bother with?, too filthy to redeem, to unfinished to hope for - and now tomorrow, it's air-tight cusp upon us like a blow-fish's mouth or the flame of a yet-another morning crawling up the edge of the earth, meeting our horizon in a glaze of bright pink and azure, and the final fleeting phantasms of a night's hazy (unwanted anyway) dreams.

what_am_i_talking about?

i can't write to you right now Sandy. i don't know why, for the same reason i'm not writing to anyone. because i can't write. i can't think, i'm drowning (not enough)(too)(much)(all this air, it's like drowning every breath i take) whatever the mess is i don't know, and cereal won't fix, but damned well i will try - if there's a hole, cereal's the first thing that might clog it back up, and let the mermen gasping on the too much air drift back into oceanic valleys where there's not enough light for them to have developed eyes in the first place,

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

there's all that to compete with too. i concede my words. all of them. i have let them loose just to show you how unfortunate they are at present. i am no man. i am no sentences. i do not know about grammar or rhetoric right now. i do not understand midnight from mischief.

what am i saying?

much love
q