I’m serious here, as I try to write myself out of this box, or am I trying to write myself into this box. What box? If I were elsewhere could I? And if so, where? Where am I suppose to be? Here or there? And if I’m always here, and suddenly go there, and stay, won’t I be here then? Then it will be too late, but if I leave now, perhaps it will be too early Who am I to say? Who am I anyway? Am I a writer who must write in my own voice or am I a voice that must write to write here and there? And about what? If I merely write about me, will I bore myself silly?
This is silly! But essential. Essentially Silly? These are the same questions I had before. Do I go back where I was?Or do I go forward? I’ll keep on.
It’s all I can do now There was a time when I could have stopped and gone to the beginning again, but I can’t now, or can I? I’ll keep on and banish that thought. Is it because I fear sliding back like I once feared moving forward? I’ll keep on. I’ll go on like rain aginst the window sill. Like the tapping of a snare with drumsticks that spew ink, the brushes against the brass cymbal that etch the long paragraph of the day. The cowbell aand triangle of night. There these pages will reek acid jazz; the performance of which will shout my nouns as whole notes and verbs as quarter notes, perhaps. The paradiddle lines beating out a piece that beckons back to an ancient rythmn recorded in the freezing air of another time. Back to Beckett, parhaps. Or Baltic roots no longer reaching.
But no recorder transcribed those sounds of ancient transformative thought, not of Beckett of course. Beckett can take care of himself. He can. He does. His thoughts up there on the shelves sing to themselves among the shelves where I listen to the jazz of words and pound out their meaning on the drumheads of your ears.
I know I have walked through to get to the kitchen and I have heard them. Clamboring away minamilistic chantingand drumming the soft sound of brushes on the side of the drum head. There I am here and can’t hear it from here. But I can there. And it was there I know it be performing its percussion symphony. Only the words are different. The beat breaks when the pen touches paper.