9485. HERE'S THE PRECIPICE (KRUEZSPIEL)

HERE'S THE PRECIPICE (KRUEZSPIEL)

Sometimes I can't go any farther than this : I stop at

the edge of the distance and wonder which way I

should turn. On the one side, in that direction, are

the flagellants, yelling their squamish wails. On the

other, the ruse of the silent monks, just staring.

Instead of it all, I have Stockhausen here, playing.

-

There's a littoral that I walk : wet sand, the tripping

of rocks along the beach, the sort of polished-to-dull

glass that gets washed up on shore. Curious, I seek

more, bending over to witness what is. The key, in

all of this life, is to accept the Now. Stop making

the categorical designations wherein reside the

failures and the avoidances of moment.

-

Men are walking by water, and a few paces behind them,

I figure, are their equaling-number female mates; like

apes on a beach, washed up to a newer land, they look

for boundaries here. There is a silence, even in their

noise. Why my head is boundless, I do not know.

-

Essential moments, my own anyway, are so few and far

between : things to be noted and checked off and marked

for cataloguing as treasures  -  a certain traditional learning

in an enterprise of museum-like trance, in an 'institution'

of my making. It's high, high crimes, and misdemeanors

too, in the terms of this modern world : I am a betrayer.

-

I watch the women; they walk together in a bunched-up

sisterhood. I hear the men, as they pass, the one saying,

'Well, mostly, now all I do is watch the porn.' Whatever

that tends to mean, I want to pull him aside and just say:

'This is your life. See what you are doing. Stop for a

moment, once each day perhaps, and listen at least for

the chatter, the marks, the sounds. To Kreuszspiel,

then, if not to anything else. It's equally

demanding a task. Too little to ask?'