Before leaving my friend told me to hold on to anchors of reality. But soon after he also told me he understands the I need to float for a while. I guess he doesn’t know, and I don’t know.
Louis, one of two who know fear, he-of what he is, and Rhoda-of what she is not. Louis, says
..and I feel come over me the sense of the earth under me, and my roots going down and down until they wrap themselves round some hardness at the centre. I recover my continuity
but Marder says
the earth itself presents an illusion of stability; we would do well to recall that its core is fire as well, and that it can give way underneath our feet
and then Louis says, after some pages..
I take the trees, the clouds, to be witness of my complete integration. I, Louis, I who shall walk the earth these seventy years, am born entire, out of hatred, out of discord. Here on this ring of grass we have sat together, bound by the tremendous power of some inner compulsion. The trees wave, the clouds pass.
Louis wants to walk an earth that waves.
I hope you are well, and that that at that moment, the wheel in which you are a spoke has lifted you to the glimpses of perception before plunging you to the ground again.
What I can only say is that my experience with anchoring did not really work.
The earth is not my earth,
and its soil pokes at me at night,
its granularity brings me air draughts from voids I can not find,
and hence I can not block.
I dream of escaping, but then instead of running between two stair-cases, the stair case turns to be the back door of the ticket booth. I could neither buy the ticket, not run away. So I had to walk on the ring road. I hope you do not mind. But I am scared to get into the car you are might be driving. I’d rather walk.
Louis, if I had to, I would walk the earth, rather than dig for a hardness at the centre. Not only because the hardness might give way to Dante’s inferno- after all, wouldn’t it be grand to set your roots ablaze, like english trees that can’t face the summer?
If I had to I wouldn’t dig. I have dug before, but the silt did not take my shape, and there was no continuity, as I tried to brush against the soil, against the sheet, against the mattress, against other people, to wrap around a contuinity. There was, however, an illusion of continuity, like the continuity that deceives us in the early morning, late night, on hot days, or from certain angels when you are in an airplane in certain times. The illusion, that perhaps, the horizon was, then, not really a line, the sea
..was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth has wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became barred with thick stokes moving, one after the another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.
As the horizon cuts through the continuity, we know, you and I, that there is a perpetual movement beneath, there is the pursuit, it would be catastrophic if the pursuit wraps around a centre, then the
Carousel of fantasies would stop.
So we toss the fantasies to the wind, hoping it would find us again. Second as a farce, as an anchor, as something might in the future recognise as familiar, as our own. A centre coming from the sky, like the moon which never shows itself to us twice. Yet we look upon it everyday as if it owes us a beginning, as if it should recognise us.
Pessoa disquiets his, my, your, surface. He stands on the horizon, probably insomniac he says that
We never truly realise ourselves. We are like two chasms- a well staring up at the sky.
Do not look for the hard centre, you and I have an accent that says we won’t be digging our roots here. Try to anchor Rhoda’s white ships. The waves, you know, will sill rock the ships. They will float on the line that disquiet your continuities.
Dear Louise, I wanted initially to write about my walk to university. My morning 20 minutes walk, the anchoring I sought to make, by knowing the route so well, so that I can read while walking, knowing exactly where the frost might cause me to slip. My reading, that I religiously keep updating by page numbers, lest I should slip into thin air. Someone earlier said it was as uninteresting as it would be to announce to the world how much percent of painting a room has been accomplished. You know I have been wondering whether I should scratch the whiteness of my room with a colour of water. No matter how clutter I bring of my own, the room remains the wrong shade of white, it remains a cloud that would not melt. I planned to talk about walking, rhythm, and place making, the everydayness of waking up to decide whether today would be the day when I anchor or when I float. Trees don’t tell me anymore. The fluttering has gone. They have gone naked. I look at them and now I have to come clean as well, so the the winter sun can find its way inside.
Dear Louis, I am neither anchored, nor floating, the horizon is fearsome. I don’t know where to walk my imagination any more. So I will be updating the number of pages I read, and take a picture everyday.
But then I went to see a movie that -in the words of a friend- was poetically liquid. It was all hues of black and aubergines, except of one sequence of the perfect shade of teal blue, with a boy floating in the sea. The colour I would paint my room, that no one cares about its colour. The colour of the Virginia Woolf book cover I left behind. Thus you appeared to me, and I thought I would write to you, about floating over the waves. The only float that cover the dark horizon line.
The shadows that accompany this are Virginia Woolf’s the Waves, Italo Calvino’s Invisible cities, Marder’s Pyropolitics, Pessoa’s the book of disquiet, Moonlight (2016), Richter’s Tuesdays (from Woolf works)