It is very hard to see a black cat in a dark room, especially when it is not there. It is for this reason, primarily, that I rail against the darkness; although other reasons will from time to time make their influence felt. I am a tree which is loudly and resolutely falling in a wood, in the hope that somebody will hear. I am, I am, I am. Send not to know for whom this bell tolls.
This crude conceit bores me.
* * *
Every thing that I see is saturated with meaning and otherness; the whole world reeks of it. I am sinking in this quagmire of things that are not me, things that denote other things. There are several distinct and overlapping classes of things, of which some are:
- Things which can be described and explained.
- Things which hurt.
- Things which have not been venerated.
- Things which will not complain.
- Things which can be wrapped in brown paper.
- Things which hold us or are held by us.
- Things which can be used to open boxes, doors and discussions.
- Things which are remembered.
- Things which other people have noted and classified.
- Things which we taste with parts of the body other than our mouths.
- Things which have never been lost.
- Things which are too small to be worth eating.
- Things which are too big to see.
There exist also numerous other classes of thing which are extremely important and consequently will not be described here.
I would like to work in a room full of books which do not symbolise anything. I would like to pick these books up and put them in groups according to their colour or perhaps their weight. I would like to know their smell as well as I know the scent of my own body. I would like to be able to look down and see my own hands clearly even when they are not touching anything.
I know that I am not the only person who sometimes forgets the names of things, because names are fitted with insufficient small fastening devices (which should be kept out of the reach of children, the insane, and people who are prone to choking). For this reason I know that it should not be shameful when I forget how to say a glass or a star or a house or a cappucino or a skirting-board or a thing that whirrs when you, a thing that rings like a bell when it, a thing that never fails to. But somehow I am always back in this same place holding a map that I cannot read. I consider worshipping the map instead of reading it.
So shall we meet as we always meet, in a place designed for waiting? Shall we say that this is a place for eating, and that is a place for praying, and here right here is a place for the other thing that we require? We will draw circles and lines on the ground between us and call it home.