a tuesday entry done on saturday after a conversation with a thursday

after having way too many drinks with the mysterious, magical, and almighty mr thursday and a coterie of absolutely random people, this poem came to my mind amidst my slightly hungover state this morning:

WHITE NIGHTS
Paul Auster

No one here,
and the body
says: whatever is said
is not to be said. But no one
is a body as well,
and what the body says
is heard by no one
but you.

Snowfall
and night. The repetition
of a murder
among the trees. The pen
moves
across the earth: it no longer knows
what will happen, and the hand that
holds it
has disappeared.

Nevertheless, it writes.
It writes:
in the beginning,
among the trees, a body came walking
from the night. It
writes:
the body’s whiteness
is the color of earth. It is earth,
and
the earth writes: everything
is the color of silence.

I am no
longer here. I have never said
what you say
I have said. And yet, the body
is a place
where nothing dies. And each night,
from the silence of the
trees, you know
that my voice
comes walking toward you.

I am reminded this languid saturday morning, metallic taste of last night’s excess still in my mouth, brain still addled,  of why we write, and how the act of writing can define who we are.

Reminds me of a postapocalyptic tarkovsky  film i  watched a few years ago where a nameless writer utters:

“A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he’s worth something. And if I know for sure that I’m a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?”

 

 

 

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