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Room XXCC.B

 

We cannot or must not ever forget the slightest suggestion, the merest mark, the tiniest trace, impressed on the whiteness or pressed on the darkness: or traced or beginning to be seen as emerging on the blackness of the deeply generative Nothing, which opposes but substantiates the richness of the True Nothing (for we cannot conceive nothingness or the Void as it cannot be, as indeed perhaps it cannot conceive us and yet it is the All, and it is the nothing).  This ambiguity or this extreme difference inside the central Creator Thing or Particle of Generation, a kind of energy of “spirit” of the ontogeny of some primal cell of the or a total being of all things to be and or not to be. Inside this contradiction of No Thing and The Totality is the instantaneous spark of generation of All Reality. ‘Big banging into Time’ And yet we can know nothing of this Nothing-Something except in extremis or in dreams or in “sparks” of the creative light. Who are you? (We should fall into incoherence or silence but we keep on talking and murmuring and creating and making. We are makers. Makers somehow made (by others or an other maker?) out of nothing by God? Or by some Nameless Force we can never know? What are we? How came we here? Here only to decay, disappear and die from all memory or does our “spiritual” force, our soul, transcend all time?  )

Do I know you? Where from wherefore when? Who is the third one? What was the light doing so late? Did you stand by the deep red geraniums by the house where Love was said to have lived? Sub rosa? Rasa? How many? Why? Are you? What am I? Do we know you sir? Do you have an identity for us to exterminate? Deep? Examine? Does the light? Do they? Who? What!?  ?? No? Yes?!  How is your life? Get a life. Get. 


You have failed. Your pain is our life. What are you? Eh?! Where are we going?  These are Questions.  It is remembered partly as it echoes into (inter rogations)…and mirror wilders….and...

  "Shakespeare’s brain grew from the darkness.”

 Listening to Mozart or Bach we sometimes believe in the Light, and in a special, ultimate Religious Light: even if only in instants.

 James Stephens the Irish poet, listened into a sea shell and heard, beside the exquisite haunting mystery and strange beauty (yet the emergent horror) of the singing sea, the Harlot Moan of Time, the ultimate formlessness and gray-green slime of the sea and (he felt) its enormous and seemingly indifferent Being: and suddenly he yearned to hear a human curse, a shout of joy or an Urgence, a cart going down a street and loud boys crying out, a creaking Wheel.  A dropped and smashing milk bottle. Human life.  The loud light.  The cheerful batter-clatter.

                                                        Glenn Innes Children

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