Continuation of 5/13/06 post.

I feel awful. I feel downright awful. She could have at least made it clearer. She could have at least. Elise. I would have liked it better if her name were Elise.

The problems happen as I spit mucous on the ground. Or rather that helps to clear them up. The esophagus, you understand. A very vital organ. One is best suited keeping it in fine order. Best suited. “If you do not understand what you are saying then you are saying something false.”

I was always rather organized. My insides all knew their function. But a question is a stifling, and the more that pile up, the more excruciating the weight becomes. But as I was saying, my throat is clear since spitting. I deposited the problems sinkside in a cesspool of salient saliva.

Which is to say I don’t much want to talk about them. The waiter comes. Duvel is here. What a day I would be wasting, letting him get warm in the sun. What a day. I sit with him here, here in the dim light. I sit with Duvel. It is dark in the dim light. Wearing label over glass, wearing label glasses walk by the europeans long in splendor and speaking gibberish to my ears. They are equally commercialized, commerceialized, committed to the common cause of commerce, no regard for mercy, or rather in a confused sort of commingling, they live in commercy, the commerce of mercying, the deferral of mercy until the full commencement of ializing, aisleizing, becoming I-alized: both Duvel and the europeans partake in equal measure of commercialization. This therefore has been a preposterous flight of words from the deed pruriently primal to it all.

I do not wish to confuse you, but I must give some indication of what this is about. I’m sick, nervously sick, oscillating between epileptic fits of furious energy and general paralysis. The Swede says that. The norwegian knows too, he knows of whispers, embraces, hesitant confessions, half-pronounced words, tiny squeals… Freddy says Oedipus and the Frenchman says his father’s name. And the dane says Just need a bit of crop rotation. And even if the brit says All you need is love and Please don’t belong, please don’t you be very long, the blood throbs all the same, and I must roll up my shirtsleeves. And then my forearms itch and I must go through the whole process all over, conflict to resolution, repulsion to attraction. The endless cycle of subjuffering. Crop rotation, but someone or something else doing the rotating. Samsara. I must go through it over and over, I must. There can be no questioning it. The germ-man says it recurs. The germ-man says. It is the greatest weight, to which one must always and again learn to open one’s eyes and say yes.

I can no longer hide the magnitude of the effect which reading l’Anti-OEdipe has had on me. When I was young, I came into consciousness upon the idea that this was a struggle to the end, eat or be eaten. Death is the one propelling us, I thought, for He is the only thing mightier than Me. But after deluge I see the roots of everything called ‘mightier.’ I have seen the mite of Death hiding in the wood of the ark. Push that swing Malkmus says, and watch it break straight like an arc. Christ, watch it swing. Christ.