Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The World Is In The Mind Of Its Maker

"The World Is In The Mind Of Its Maker"

Even without the money being visible you have got to continue doing what you do-and to continue doing-this is essential-more of it. You do the same thing over and over in different circumstances. That is all. Circumstances have a way of taking part in the outcome of things.....

Monday, August 27, 2012

"Dear Heart"

Dear Heart-
Your communication just reached me.
You have been so much on my "mind"-so much the content of my consciousness these days.
Let me begin by saying I so enjoyed the feeling with which you communication was infused, as well as the substance it carried.
Of course I was aware of the momentous occasion that just took place in your lives-this great moment-and felt that I must make some effort not to feel absolutely monstrous for deciding against any attempt on my part to be at all "a part of the festivities" (I would intrude with an LOL there, but have absolute assurance of your quick intelligence in matters of this sort)-as I was saying, on that momentous occasion I was Irish full of thoughts of the sort that blow in from the sea off the coast of Dublin-as when I hear the voice of my ancestors intoning-"Birth was the death of him." with a chuckle and delight.
But to the point-I have thought so much of You lately. You. The who gets lost in the vast panoply of production. Do not let this happen. In all the universe there is only one you. Know this as an eternal verity, not merely as a flippant slogan current in social media.
And of course your selection of pic for the communication was absolutely so sardonically right on! I love how you wrap it up with tribal wisdom:
"You might as well laugh! What else can you do?"
Oh, and one more little thing:
I'll be loving you-eternally

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Marguerite's 65th Birthday Party at Anais Nin's

...when I arrived it had been to thoughts of Ah Toy tapping at her window on Clay Street, for always, at the end of the day, it is got to be taken off to market, to market...no matter what it may be-that is just the thing-no matter what it may be...even if that be the living of a metalife. I knew all about it-had ever sought the absence-the blessed nod to one's earnest request to "Count me out!"
...the moment, what is real, yet is what eludes, evades, escapes our note. We are ever and always elsewhere...
...but you will have been expecting "The Dinner Scene"...
"What was served?"
"I do not remember."
"Who served dinner?"
"Anais and Hugo together. They were a doting couple, in and out of the kitchen together. Marguerite was the birthday girl. It had to be August 26th. The year? I'll have to see, to figure it out. It was her 65th birthday-so it would've been August 26th 1973. I was floating somewhere between Bozeman Montana and Bombay India so that would have put me in place to attend a birthday dinner in Manhattan."
It will be forty years ago next year. I would like to mark Marguerite's birthday next year with an online celebration. During the months that are ahead, I will do what I can to introduce her work to many more people.
Love you Marguerite!
Happy Birthday

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

A Gradual Evocation

a form emergent in the gradual evocation itself celebrating the eternal meaning of all that which passes.
I reach back far. I am reaching back far-to the orange crate on the lawn-to the sublime solitude, alone, with my Notebook and my pen.
African violets often occupied my mind, I would see them when I went within-purple and yellow on black velvet-or it was of their care and maintenance my mind was full-a single leaf, its stem planted firmly in the soil, puts down roots, brings forth life, blooms-a car passes-the child takes note-an out-of-state license plate-Delaware-Delaware-the word was so lovely, as lovely as the silver star shining brightly in the not yet dark sky-The child looked up, and, looking down, made another note.
"The bright star appeared before the fall of night." He liked how that sounded. He liked it a lot. He mulled it over in his mind. "It is not the statement that is made," he had then thought, "rather it is the word-the word and with it the thing. The word and the thing."

Sunday, August 12, 2012

"Well, there are scales you know..."

"Well, there are scales, you know just such scales as gold is measured in-just such, and as exacting, in which the measure of our act's taken."
It was not so much that all this transpired on an empty stage, as it were, no not that at all. It could have been an encircling satellite of some distant moon on a planet more distant still and made no difference whatever.
The Orphan Theme.
Her father left, and so she had searched for him in every shred and shard of man who happened by. Gonzalo and all the nameless hordes, those whose names were never known, who joined as the night marked as night. This was a Bombay deep as pitch. They came, and there was this sudden exitation, as would have arisen, no doubt, at the birth of an idea that some distinguished thing might this way pass...yes, that had always and ever been it, precisely. ...
and when she reckoned the image of her mother, her little fairy tale moght, it would have to be from an old all but forgotten photograph, a mere shade of a shadow of a shade-
The air is thick with grit-fine particles of dust adhere to the page on which I write...
It is all a matter of mirrors-a matter of mirrors.
She who was to be embraced as the embodiment of passion was as relentless a mechanist as the coldest of intellectuals. -
We think we see what we see, hear what we hear, think what we think and yes feel what we feel yet even in the dusky shades inhabiting all that is feeling were the mirrors, ever, and always.
This must be taken in...
to be continued....

within which fostering absence was almost guaranteed


"A felicitous climate within which the fostering of absence was almost guaranteed was afforded me as a child. I spent my days far away. in the presence of a somewhat fully guarded someone. There was none of that largesse of the serene sea in her world-at any moment, the shriek of a siren, no matter at what distance, was a jet into the black and the red-hers was the intellection of the conceived real, that over which she fancied she held some directing sway...."

Friday, August 10, 2012

Anais Nin Jan31 1971

among this morning's fragments

Monday, August 6, 2012

"..his habituated parsimony favoring art..."

"...for years he'd been inscrutably monotonous" and now this sudden turn, this coming into new terrain, this unhazarded outcome, brought him to his narrowest quarters ever...alone, alone, alone in his cell he heard the voice of a cricket musician seeming to penetrate the thick adobe wall or perhaps it came from above through the small window open to the outside...he thought this over before resuming his journey, eyes closed, back home. He inspires, somehow, an ambition within me, an ambition first of all to do...to do thus to be...to do something instead of nothing, not needing a reason why...to trace with him the insistence of a ghostly character given yet another chance to shine is to at once examine the ghosts of all unfinished intentions within one's own sphere-to bring again to light with the vividity of the possible, those half-forgotten projects of the past. And with this comes the dertermination of a moment...to make them real..."
to be continued

People ask me "How'd You Meet Anais Nin?'

People have asked me how I met Anais Nin - I supposed they were inquiring about the circumstances under which I might have encountered in this life such a a moment so full of rich promise, hope and destiny. When I look back I think "Whew-stepped right into the lap of twentieth century literary history in the twinkling of an eye.
Well although I'd like to tell a brilliant story such as might include the princess who was kissed by a toad and who kissed that toad right back, this is a story far less romantic and one might indeed say even yes pedestrian.
A letter came in the mail in a fine light blue envelope - I think the letters began to come at first in Montana. Yes, that would have to be it - Montana.
"They hung Aloysius Wing by the neck until he was dead, while the band played "There'll  Be A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight" for he had requested some gay music for the occasion."
"Your writing" it began, and I wondered "Who could this be that is writing about my writing?" - "Your writing," it began "is so beautiful that I instantly copied it out."
So the story began in writing. Without the writing there'd be no story.
My words met Anais long before I'd even heard of her.
Could it be that we create in the theatres of our own brainboxes, these characters we shall later meet as is said in real life?
For so many years I had lived with Ah Toy and the Princess TaTa and then in a very sudden triangulation of universe energies and entities I found myself between them, among them, with them, voyaging together into vast uncharted waters.
to be continued
to be considered:
always geography-on the planet we were general-our name legion-Coos Bay Oregon, Silver Bow Montana, the old Bombay, hill stations, Pondicherry, the old Madras, we occupied the benches of the train stations, we were on the corners of every street, Singapore, the opium dens, rickshaws, Goa, Dublin, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, small towns up and down each and every coast, we were everywhere, Marcus Hook, Cape May, Monaco, Rio, Buenas Aires, New Oreleans, Nice, Guanajuato, Taos, Indianapolis, London,

Saturday, August 4, 2012

A Sudden Triangulation and We Are All One

I cannot think of Anais without Marguerite, yet with the greatest of ease I think of Marguerite without Anais. Anais was always here, always present. Marguerite was well, she was very much here also, and yet, and yet..."Marguerite, beyond the ether, travelling there - in her absence was her presence, and her presence was her absence - as we moved from one point to the next always there emerged another face, another doll face, another book...when she would pause before making the next introduction, holding the doll to face you she says "and this is Martha Washington. Finally, having met Dolly Madison, Mary Todd Lincoln, and other first ladies, we come to two dolls seated together..."and this" she says "this is Alice B. Toklas and  Gertrude Stein" - pause, a muted laugh, almost stifled, before continuing - "and so you see everything turns out fine in the end."
So this triangulation which emerged over a period of time gave rise to the reality that we are all one.