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I Ching


It happens often in the midnite hour. I liken it to a buzz–the body, electric–as if everything that occurred during the light of day sparks a charge. I hear it’s hum, the mind’s heavy undertone, secret currents. Mulling over meanings, questioning all the magical signs, & just like Stevie, wonder about varied superstition. It keeps me awake at nite. Night & gal….

I used to eat books. Steal them, digest them, confuse words, names, ideas, and lives with my own. A steady diet of perfect truths and faeried fictions. Years later, I can hardly stand the structure of a book–left to right, 1 to 2, a straight sequence of ordered events. I prefer to shake the machine that with a taped post, screams ‘out of order’.

Outside a bar, I confess to H, a friend, that I no longer read unless it’s at random. It’s the only way I can. In this way, time is of no consequence. Perception is sensation, subjective, and memory is unchained to chronos. He said there was a rumor that Faulkner intended The Sound and the Fury to be read this way….

There’s a book that does a better job than the bible for me. It sits bedside–pages touched, felt, and invited inmore than any lover. It is dog-earred, paper-clipped, divided by cookied-fortunes, bobby pins, and strands of plucked hair. At nite, when the hum resounds too loudly with ceaseless thoughts, I finger this book and project a certain listlessness–exchanging mind currency for I-CHING.

Tonite, for you, I simply ask, and what of this?

& this it reads, page 264: ‘The appetite was jaded and corrupt. The vision, the splendor, the rhythm of the body were instantly broken. Clock time, machines, auto horns, whistles, congestion, caught man in their cogs, deafened, stupefied him. The city’s rhythm dictated to man; the imperious order to remain alive actually meant to become an abstraction….’

Yeah, I know, she (Nin) never lets me down. I save the page with a hair tie. I wonder…very superstitious…writings on the wall.