All Our Plans
—–Conceptually the place might crack open at your feet, but it won’t, for plain reality is just consuming enough, life is a set of paths to keep you intact, intent on just sufficient errands, sneaking glances at the white sky, hoisted up there out of reach. What a locality is this! It is clear, when you get a periodic chance to think, how idle and waiting everything is. Not just the gameboard, but the players are distracted. The separate sight of the stranded horizon contains all previous events in a life, but who has the moment at hand, when they look, exactly? The cozy, manufactured setting, splintered and half out of use, has always diverged from any fretful past. The person hurries across the parking lot. Dramatic ideas of where we are, how it could have arrived, arisen out of a previous mood, I mean land, are forestalled. Or curtailed. Curtailed, that’s the word. The sky does not tell time, how could it, it is only cinematic clouds and the coming nightfall which brings such a familiar chill. Life is long. She always has to figure out how it goes, by an inward sense, a rudder, some giddy clock–devastating with its patterns and incomplete meanings . . . This is the tenor of her secret happiness, I think.
—— In this address, I am sure I can relate to her. Often, I have found, people are thinking the same thing. It is impossible to fix the world in any schematic. Over and over I repeat it is not here only for you to wander around in, just by the gift of its true origins. No, instead, you are a spliced in, sideways lucky fellow, or dancing girl, chancing upon a neat poetic description, with a very narrow focus. That’s what I tell myself, that it is my only option to become . . . more perfectly obscure. I am more and more rallying, as if becoming secure in radical judgments. These days, people are extreme in their views about the ultimate value of anything–as it relates to ultimate value, so to speak. And you can quote me on that. Tied up in knots, who has a greater need for humor than I?–one tells oneself. A greater right of way? While swerving, finally treading right into the mystery, focusing less and less on bland public issues; rather, more and more selecting something abstruse, or downright difficult–coming back to what was first thought about, anyway–and envisioned in that land claimed boisterously once, by a child who had plenty of theories. Before all of life greeted him or her, with popular themes, and stretched out towards the sealed off horizon, with its incoming, drenching rains, figuratively speaking. As if unaware of all our plans.