{The House of Songs}
. . . and so it begins again
in silence
a grave shushed awe in the face of time immobile
like a dream starting somewhere before the imperceptible beginning and playing endlessly over and over again . . .
The house itself was Nothing.
Hardly anything.
Nothing serious.
Nothing anybody would get really—well,
small gasps of wonderment, uncomfortably dreaming.
The house seemed to float in the green grass,
in the most distant corner—formidable—
as good a word as any.
You know the sort
sort of—well, sort of a dream
all at once, almost anything,
but this time it appeared…
what was in the corner…
Nothing…
the titles of books on shelves…
[excerpt]:
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It can’t, if all existence symbolized the partly opened gesture of hopelessness. You know?”
“Probably nothing enough any more,” he said.
“It’s hardly noticeable,” she said, “yes, a dreadful thing.”
The great body, the faint hum of electric symmetry. The double, in the midst of silence, being always but for more. That was Nature, God’s cloak, the drapery of my dreams. Hidden amidst primitive rites: the soul of a vacuous contemplation of nothing.
“As a matter of fact, its owner is unknown.”
But that was not strictly true; the house, which was cool and was by no means empty—nor, indeed, visible to anyone who could turn a knob.
“It’s such a beautiful place,” she said, “yes, it is. But nowhere, utter benignity. Difficult to establish the whereabouts of, not definite, just—abstracted.”
But the facts were obvious…
[end excerpt]
The house was located at a nondescript corner. Nobody paid any attention to it, not even the birds. It was a nothing. They said it couldn’t be found.
Time slept discreetly within its shadows.
Then one day it drew closer and closer. What does nothing look like? There was a cellar, there was an attic, and that was all. According to the man who wore a black suit, the house was built to last long enough to create the problems that arrive with every winter: the coming of a king unknown whose painted hands caress silver dreams, aged proverbs.
Crack!
A thunderbolt steers the course of all things – heedlessly, a sudden cry like the first word tearing forth from that dream of the lonely one whose endless slumbers still natheless.
Some of the ghouls in the cellar have now found the heavenly stair. The dust speaks, still young in this ancestral hall:
“I confess, my soul, this black midnight hour we must be strangers! Beneath your veil, a whispering stream, the sacred echoes of nightingales all singing solitary in the dark will haunt and own even me when you join him on his throne bringing happiness for all.”
! 404 Looks like this image doesn’t exist !
In imagination, one can see the universe walking up and down the shrouded garden here at Hope’s End. Its air filled with the softest confusion, the house stands silent with close-drawn curtains and shut doors. Nothing else was so built by man. The owner of the house is somewhat asleep behind one of those curtained windows, cozy in that ever-hidden apartness. But wait—one of the doors of the house is opening…
A little girl, still in her chrisom, tiptoes out, the moon flowing in her hair. Unaware of us groping back through the years to gaze at her, she darts down one of the paths and is gone…
Klang: the sound of the first burning, a way-making, a process of pure invention, the ringing bell of Time whose echoes still burn the cinders of the songs of poets.
The eyeless eye unconcealing. Travels for wayfaring strangers begin the forgetting.
Once-influential Gods fade away in vacant parking lots behind desolate municipal buildings.
They retire, perhaps, and languish on an extended vacation in oblivion while word of their absence spreads, thins, ceases.
(image)
Millions of words prop up the decorative shelves of living rooms whose inhabitants gaze into mirrors seeking proper directions for where they might finally discover their true selves.
And the reply: elsewhere! Ever elsewhere.
Undeterred, the eyeless eye reawakens the question that has been forgotten here in oblivion:
Elizabeth Andromeda, my sister vibrate, as yet untouched by a thousand groping languages.
Stillborn from the cosmic eye into the yolky sea of time and space: Elizabeth Andromeda, my sister vibrate.
As above, so below – the wind carries her in its belly.
The new arrival come to wake the dead.
The mother the moon is beautiful, illuminating every hollow echo in every barren valley.
Transformation.
Katherine, my sister vibrate.
Katherine and her phantom orb—without opposition, nothing is revealed.
Katherine, my sister vibrate, traipsing upon the debris of the universe. Humming a new tune, she never looks down.
Her phantom orb travels everywhere leading us like a honeyguide into our dreams.
Even the Gods might be heard again and reborn.
Endlessly writing Being’s poem – the ever-forgotten lesson: the freedom bells drowned out by undeserved and unnecessary certainty.
{ } VK Arkiv 