dissabte

With every piece fallen in place, shall the game be over?








Well, here’s father Saturn talking to his wife...



Hey, Lucy, don’t you cook none of the tykes, o.k.?















Father time eating and not eating his children... Which is it? Or is it both? Father time making up his mind – every existent existedevery non-existent existedevery non-existent non-existed – take your pick...



As his reusable bits of time joggle for position – those fragments of life or unlife we call “instants” – instants through which we all pass... and the others before us passed... as the others after us’ll pass... as every bit of existence passes through the bits of being – limited and exhaustible – inexhaustibly...











Time: little reusable fragments of being we are all getting lost in...?










This explains all those volatile dangers looming just out of range... but menacing to pound at any moment... and those so-called mysterious cryptic spirits one encounters pell-mell, all those fleeting shades, ethereal, ephemeral, ectoplasmic, crumbling... all those so-called hallucinations, and déjà-vus... the inapprehensible shadows, the angelic and diabolic pixies of the thin (and yet too-inhabited) airs... the sulfurs and the gases, and the pricks and punches into your bare raw brain, out of nowhere... your jumps of conscience... your regrets... your sudden changes of mood... your desperations... your elations without explanation... your ghosts lurking now and then out of the scope of the wandering eye, and also the dazzling staggering apparitions... and... all the mishmashed hoard of seemingly incorporeal influences... unbeknownst to you... or is it...? don’t you feel sometimes the presence of the fellow who at that moment... (or was it yesterday...? tomorrow then...?) happens (happened... will chance to...) to walk over your tomb... or your grave or gravestone...? that’s just a metaphor for all those ineffable happenings you have never really had a handle on... the harmonious or dissonant latencies... the shrouded arpeggios... the tenuous veils envelop you... the cobwebs and gossamers... cocoons offering to make you their chrysalis... a transformable new entity... and the rough and fair patches you go through in your soul’s flight... the labyrinths... the jigsaw puzzles: their empties, their fulls and too-fulls where you bump into... ah, and the haunted dreams... those evanescent embryos of thought... the decaying and ascending motives... all made of the same notes... without rhyme nor reason... composing your trajectories... accompanying your living as you go, willy-nilly, along...




No wonder everybody is so confused and fucked-up. With each of us tripping with and stepping into one another’s instants. When you step into an already-lived instant – or perhaps even a many-times-lived instant – then you must feel “funny” – like you are (re)living another(’s) life...



I choose to be frugal – I love tasting and retasting instants – they last thus longer... Fie the cursed garbage of passions – murdering or rubbishing up so many precious instants... I fail to see any point in my going to the crazy feasts... so much energy spent just for kicks... for the hell of it... the instants in further, farther, turmoil... wasted... burned-up...



Listen, you got it all wrong... the charges are trumped-up... the imputed crimes all false... the lists of vices and defects crass inventions... What gave you the idea... Where did your mind go errant and malfunctioning... where did it walk into the wrong patch and form the foolish notion that... that I...? Couldn’t it have been another who...? Don’t you realize that... as far as going up and down the back alleys of time... you don’t need any Wellsian machine whatever...?



Fragments of time called “instants” fly at random... haphazardly... helter-skelter... you can chance, slide, bump into any one of them unawares... one instant... or another... hey, not a virgin one, mayhap... a non-virgin instant, yes... already occupied long ago... who knows... maybe one instant occupied this very instant... right now... occupied by somebody else... with whom you share a thought, an intuition, a revelation, a brotherly intimation... phantom infatuations... and the odd falling in love... or in hate... Are you making a terrible mistake...?



So many unexplainable instances of intimate rapport between two people... or among some people... and animals... and ghosts...













[Instants that impinge in one’s life, or one’s life impinging in those sundry instants that... are fragments... pieces of the puzzle... cantles of time (i.e., of being) already taken, or recently left vacant, or long ago inhabited, or even virginal... Here’s the theoretical panoply that undergirds or underpins my last novels’ drolleries and fluctuations.]



eixavuirint al sac de les serradures

amb una lot em faig llum i...

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,