JULY 5, TERRACE SFONDATO: CICADAS OVER MARITIME PINES;
LATERAL DIN AND POOL WATER SPLASHES IN THE BACKGROUND
This could mean a lot, this could me anything. Or not a thing at all.
Also, this is true on so many levels.
Dear reader, we’ve come at a crossroads with this in *here*, this both original and eschatological one. For you who have come along the journey this far, I can tell you this much: you’ll be offered the situation once again, and again, whether or wherever you’ll decide to carry on with this. This thing somebody calls something else; whatever it might be to your understanding, of your vision and from your view.
Some time ago it happened for the first time, and I had a realization. Of something I was envisioning. Don’t ask. Go figure.
I was rummaging through miscellaneous files of written content -notes on paper and words within a screen; the pages of a little green notebook that I had dedicated for this specific purpose and experience with content annotations of all kinds that I’ve been carrying around mostly everywhere ever since- that altogether formed what I’ve been writing but not what you might’ve ended up reading.
Chapters. Of different periods and differing in tone and content. Adding to the whole picture, possibly.
‘Cause you can let out whatever goes through your mind; just, you cannot release it all.
I might have phased-out editorial standards…
And it struck me. A whole month had passed and the words alone were… enough to bring me back to where and what previously, or consciously, felt just like an immediately adjacent room. A step away just left behind. Right behind the corner, where the office in the sea-all-for-ourselves, all for me, was, standing still.
I felt all over again the cold, the wind, the silence, the meager crowd, the occasional encounter ridden in caution and unsettledness.
To read of, say, April and May in June was quite the trip.
Is this what the lingering power or legacy of literature is? Of memory as well, then.
Though, or as a matter of fact, not everything made the cut…
There are things that weren’t mentioned, that haven’t been said; others either nearly or completely missed. Gone overlooked or untold, almost for good.
Again, this applies to so many and on so many levels.
Also, other weird alchemies worked their way undercurrent.
What I thought I was saying, I was doing; what I was believing to be thinking, it was happening before me if I had eyes to see.
While the exercise was incarnated, the excursus exemplified.
So, a partly authorial, partly editorial note, if you will, the missing chapters is this: “all of the above”; but you’ll read of it in my final piece also as a theme in and of itself: what still didn’t make it; what doesn’t make any sense.
…And ended up leaving gapings within it. But these are not blank pages we’re talking.
In fact I would advise our reader to see and walk, of all things, The Fiftieth Day as a constellation rather than a storyline.
With the additional missing bits, that will be periodically dropped and published, like some fine gentleman with delusions of nineteenth century novelry would, some things will make more sense in there.
For others the vertigo will amplify.
Part of the work will remain in the dark, unfulfilled, until a light, a word, something, will make its way.
Have no fear though. This ain’t the media.
One last, rearview mirror note (before I leave for there): inexplicably, as I mentioned at the very beginning, it seems poetry still cannot fully untangle from the political. For those who remember and look ahead.
I think antidotes come as a reflex, too.
As a general rule there’s one thing I’d suggest, I’d say, my dearly unknown, never to do. “Following the leader”.
So, unless that is the case, please, feel free to come along for the ride. Your way.