I was lonely.
And so we met.
We strange three quite simply and really met.
So this triangulation which emerged over a period of time gave rise to a reality within which it became apparent that we are all of us one.
Marguerite, beyond the ether, travelling there, even while contemplating the strands of hair clinging to the sides of a metal wastepaper basket, even there her absence was her presence, and her presence her absence - as we moved from one point to the next...
Anais, this far side of the ether-in the delta of dust-immersed, and what lay beyond the ether existed but as a mental artifice, and a piece of throbbing gristle moving about in the delta of Venus was more real by far.
So the stage is set.
I cannot think of Anais apart from Marguerite, yet with the greatest of ease I envision Marguerite without Anais.
On this fact hangs a tale.
Two morning stars-If I knew what they were named would I know them any more than in the fondness of a gaze?
An obscurantist fable.
She was full of contradictions.
If it did not meet the measure of music, it was not retained.
This would then be at once "The Story Of The Notebooks" - a treasure trove of Notebooks awaited him at every post and every port. All the scribes were eager to write down all that they had observed, every shade, every nuance, each bright glimmer, smoke rising from a languidly held cigarette...hotel lobbies worldwide were his haunt.
"His name was Legion whose name was Joke."
I am in a suburban neighborhood south of Philadelphia and about one mile from the banks of the Delaware River-I am seated at an orange crate serving as my desk.
"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." It is a thing which amazes my mind that this single saying is the single most often quoted message from Anais to the world. As though she had not said another thing, this one rather pedestrian thing continues to rise up, a monument to her capacity for artifice. So many have said this that Anais has said and said it with greater depth, with a more beauteous lustre, with a richer bundle included in the package, and yet she utters it simply and the world is enchanted. This is her mystery-making capacity. This is who she would have you conceive she is. Ah! Ah Toy!
So it was that the key emerged with which she unlocked the door to the most interior mystery-
Music. Music the doorway to an everyday eternal metaphysic.
In the interim, he was ever this purveyor of exquisitries-even unto the initial beheading in all its spectacular bloody beauty and had held ever fast to the truth of evocation, eschewing any call to describe, for why describe when at hand there lies the thing itself with its word?
to be continued....