43.

I used my eyelids to excavate a pond, cried for the moon until she came. The look on her face told me light cannot be borrowed, but to the world to which I woke it meant the buying & selling of days.

I suppose I wait now, for that other world to wake me, but I shall not wait passively, nothing is so beautiful as reality: there are things I know about you that you could not tell yourself. I suppose I couldn’t tell you either, only tell you it wasn’t necessary for me to know, & that it wasn’t revealing so much as revelation — still I don’t think I’d say there’s nothing personal about it.

The owl pellet is the physical result of this work. Perhaps if I’d got up earlier yesterday I could’ve told you a lot of what it meant for me, but sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between failure & what isn’t meant to be.

I have to say, there is really a lot here, even in just a few little lumps of what is basically the same stuff tucked away in a corner of yet more. More of the same difference, kind of thing. It’s weird ’cos sometimes even I think it’s not the kind of thing I’m interested in. I suppose interest is far too weak a word. I suppose the only thing that really helps me is there’s nothing I can do about it, even so there’s a lot of things that doesn’t mean.

One of my favourite aspects of the owl pellet are the little whiskers poking out of it. It makes it appear like it might still be sensitive, but the touch is no longer directed by some wet glistening nose it is a reconstituted chaos of perception, like looking into a puddle when the wind disturbs your reflection only here it is holding still, the disturbance has revealed something steadier, a firmness beyond coherence. I ask myself, just for a joke really, if there isn’t anything cute about it. Is there any cuteness remaining in this lump of voodoo dreadlock, grey matted hair & splintered bone? Perhaps it wasn’t me asking myself but already the zombie rat perched bug-eyed on my shoulder, who well knows I love him & so find him kind of cute, my little wet scab of a friend.

My smile is not to make light of the fact it turns my stomach (when I watched it while eating yesterday it made me feel quite sick) but I can’t deny there is something about it that makes me happy. Perhaps it is that Christ where the cross is rot. Who imagines the Truth is always symmetrical? Might the way of the world not be a kind of wonk? You can’t just take the top off something & call that Perfection, nor can you make a slice of something & call that the Good: You have to eat it all.

Of course ‘you’ don’t. You can just go back to what you don’t even know is sleep, waste your fucking life away & take a few boring cunts with you. Or do nice sleepy things too, of course, there are plenty of those, plenty of interesting appearances to tend. Fun. Have some nice sleepy interesting fun. Laugh at something a computer wrote.

Delightfully Revolting, I’d say, if I had to sum it up.