On The Yellow Bird

Yes she was of course right all along. Atleast I can honestly say that I knew that when I read her for the first time, freshly eighteen and burning up inside. Much like this, somethings are written to be forgotten, that much I could sense. I certainly managed to remember/forget with the utmost fervence. It was always there, yes, I just let it wander out of sight.

Empty, bewildered, drenched, washed up, the waves, they are not the same, over and over, they end up here, again and again, the dirty shore, oh to re-live it all. I am indecipherable. or am I? One says that I'm completely transparent, that they could see right through me. the other says, impenetrable, impossible to know. ow well, who knows?

Oh, again and again. I find it quite comical atp. From the outside, all you can see is a glimmer, but it's there, all right, like the slick bottom of the whiskey glass, a thick, distorted mirror that only reflects the truth, the inevitable. It’s a vivid and inexplicable dream, i dreamed I was playing with my reflection, but my reflection wasn’t in a mirror, but reflected somebody else who wasn’t me.

Yesyes!! the critics are annoyed by mystery, i know. if significance eludes them, they feel powerless, but then mystery is the proof of a man's spiritual existence, they say. and the only way to capture it, symbolism. the language must be learned. one must accept foremost their immersion into the nightly lake of unconscious. You cannot analyze while feeling okay?

I was watching a documentary about her writing process. She says she wants people to receive her writings as we receive music. It should reach us directly as music does, touching the centre of emotions, bypassing analytical dissection by the mind. you need to tune in differently than you tune into one dimensional words.

He says to Sal, we gotta go and never stop going 'till we get there. And he asks, 'Where we going, man?' to which he replied ‘I don't know but we gotta go.’ I think it wasn’t until we were past the middle of it, that we realized the old old dull pain, had only slipped underneath us, now freshly scrubbed. the mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us. and the eyes that remained eyes and not the doorway we hoped for. Yes, his wounds will heal, the skin prolly a bit thicker than before. The radio aches a little tune that tells a story of what the night is thinking. It’s thinking of love.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of faliure, I’m sure your remember. We begin demanding answers before we enter into the labyrinth, we demand sign posts and street signs. Here’s the cake, and here’s the fork, and here’s the desire to put it inside us, and then the questions, unanswerable questions. Is there a god? Is there an afterlife? If the solution to our problems is love, what kind of love, and how can it be achieved? If we find peace in work, artistic creation, closeness to nature, the circle of friends or the family circle... just how do we go about accomplishing this? and then the question behind every question, what happens next?

We have this great urge to examine this irrational source of how we act, the way we act with the hope that by confornting it we will be able to understand and wield an intelligent control over them. over who?

I just wanted to write back to you in someway, like someone learning. I’m not good at telling stories, and I like eating with my hands, I am a messy eater and half the time I don’t make sense, it’s frustrating, I know. I try to photograph each instant and I like deepening the words, over each pass, as if I were painting, layers... more than an object... its shadow.

I don’t want to ask why, you can always ask why and always get no answer, or the same answer. could I manage to surrender to the silence that follows a question without an answer? could you? Though I sense that in some place or in some time the great answer for me does exist, I don't know where, but I know we gotta go...

Until sleep comes,
Kay.