The Devil won't write. And he keeps me up at night to do his bidding. He says to write slander, lies and lies, all of everything that I want but do not need (to say). Because what could be more patriotic? Evening the score. An eye for an eye. Buff away the older messages - they are all static symbols now anyway, and hieroglyphics - replace them with newer marks, more relevant marks - to refresh and upgrade whatever fairy tale or fiction mid-sentence.
Where do I put it all? And where are the things I'm writing? Certainly not here. Ursa Major was nothing: a cluster of silent suns, before it was a bear. And bears don't walk in stars, and never will. A = A. = = =. A symbol is a symbol is a symbol, and where do I put it? Here. Over there. Inside. On my body. On a face, a color, a time of day. Symbols adhere, as if they too observe the laws of science. Gravity. Magnetism. Your face, the symbol. A heart, the symbol. My name, the symbol.
What is a symbol, and why am I such an avid collector of symbolic meaning? If I understood this, I might understand every idea. Love, hate. Loss, gain. Death, or Earth. Symbols displace and multiply and even displacement itself becomes a symbol. I almost want to try and gather up all of my symbols, organize them in neat bundles, observe them in their cages, behaving like bored, lonely animals, and close my eyes or turn my back to finally depart from them, recalling only the wildness of words, of images.
But I think, God, how Victorian! Am I not a wild word too? A wild image? My symbols are mine, and they are me. And the symbolic meaning of the other, the "you", being as thoroughly feral as that idea tends to be: What does it offer me and mine? More symbols. Oh, what a mess! I couldn't even justify organizing my own symbols. The last thing I need is more, especially not if I should have to keep them all inside.
So then, there. Let's not keep them inside. Let's not keep them any one place, and especially not in ourselves, selfishly. We've run a tight circle. So how about an eye for an eye?
Here is my eye.
My eye is green, shaped like an almond, like a bay leaf which is also green. With my eye, I look and see and sometimes refuse to look. Sometimes I think my eye gets wet and starry when I really wish to use it as a tool, to express: the eye, the medium. Ink and my eye. My eye is convex, like the cockpit of an airliner. My body, or the fuselage, with all its arms and bags of blood and pulp, stores cargo, seats passengers - it drinks and breathes and it sees too, but it does not see far from the inside of itself. It evades and protects, sneaking shy glances across the aisle. The eye looks out and, as itself, can't look in. But somewhere the pilot steers. My eye is a black hole, and the black lens of my eye is a genius opening. God, everyone is fascinated by it - in theory, at least. I cannot see the inside of my own eye. Only with the assistance of shamanistic scholars of the eye can I view my eye's insides, and even the shaman must use a talismanic tool. Even the machine that sees my eye copies my eye. And an eye, by nature, is reciprocal. It copies the machine and opens to look upon and into this thing. All those tiny, moving parts: tissues and nerve. Registering fields of light, fields of dark, color / space / proximity / characteristic. All languages of the body. Sometimes everything burns in my eye, because of the warmth of the passion of the intellect, or the white hot savage fire of the ego as it bleeds. Something boils the eye, and it adopts the manner of the heart or mind, for a moment, before extinguishing the flame with one tear or more. The eye, like the heart, but unlike the mind, tends to its own basic hunger. The eye is such a lively, combustible organ, and from somewhere it learned sympathy. Perhaps from other eyes it watched burn and cry. The eye is a phoenix. It burns and dies and is reborn again a natural eye, and these cycles are learned and relearned each time an eye watches an eye.
So that is, to the extent I care to explain it, the symbol of my eye. So, in order for this trade to be fair, let's have your eye. Explain a chapter of your origin through an eye.
Tomorrow, the ear. Tomorrow, like every day, I will ask to see and hear it.