Oversion’s Weblog

“I do not say this in order to wound. I could say other things if i really wanted to wound.
” - I am Writing to You From a Far Off Country

It is a good time to consider that as a sentiment. I find the translations used in this quotes fairly simple. 

and that everything goes into double space and the font changes 

It is a good time to consider this as there is quite a wide flung absence of 

conflict in my little poetry world these days. I doubt that I am wrong. 

Could be but I sense none. A time has come where people have become equidistant 

according to the needs of distance, where people are doing what they want to be, 

where there really is enough internet at last, a vast jouissance of attention being shared 

along with inattention. That which one would have attention paid to 

one has worked on while evidently not paying attention to what others did. 

My new neighbour, opening and closing his door and the hallway door 

here on howland ave, does not know what I think of him doing this. There is peace 

but not quiet, and yet I do not send Goth vibes his way. 

“I am writing to you from the end of the world. You must realize this. The trees often tremble. We collect the leaves. They have a ridiculous number of veins. But what for? There is nothing between them and the tree any more, and we go off troubled.
” - I am Writing to You From a Far Off Country 

Being from Windsor, I know this feeling all so well. Essex County, like France or Belgium 

would shock us with its high indifference, its commitment not to our annihilation 

for we were nothing for it to annihilate. We were nothing. And it knew. French poetry invaded like 

slick light. Our slow moving pick-up trucks, our stagnant yet tense pick-up lines 

for that matter, our slurred speech after poorly made beer, our slow confusion 

on acid, nothing, nothing but a waste of people’s time. Therefore

“Could not life continue on earth without wind? Or must everything tremble, always, always?
” - I am Writing to You From a Far Off Country 

There are subterranean disturbances, too, in the house as well, like angers which might come to face you, like stern beings who would like to wrest confessions.” 
- I am Writing to You From a Far Off Country 

We see nothing, except what is so unimportant to see. Nothing, and yet we tremble. Why?” 
- I am Writing to You From a Far Off Country  

Essex County was not always like the south of France to me. It was more often a dangerous place

where I tried to not be attacked. That underpinning of inane, thoughtless violence, 

like this show “The Sopranos” dogged me. Stupid pointless 240 pound thugs 

nasty vicious smaller young men, meaningless dialogue in vengeful moments, 

except they were those with whom I’d had no engagement, those whom I’d merely observed 

and they’d felt it, perhaps, or, needed, anyone, to give a hard time. The wonder of it. 

“It soon became clear(from my adolescence on) that I had been born to live amoung monsters. For a long time they were terrible, then they ceased being terrible and after great virulence they weakened little by little. Finally they became inactive and I lived amoung them in serenity.” 
- In the Company of Monsters

I have shared this personal development with Henri Michaux. It is well spoken there. 

This serenity began a few weeks ago. Even this afternoon, slowly bicycling 

when I saw the man who used to look at me strangely, with his black poodle, 

with whom he seems to communicate as few communicate, well I saw him: 

the dog, a fine formation of the genre Poodle, much less scratchy looking than they 

often do, more athletic than they sometimes are, this smart black poodle 

who knows me so well from years of passing acquaintance, which is a lot of thought for a dog, 

whose life I saved, alerting him to a car, making him wag his tail 

warm eyed, for he had thought I disliked him, on behalf of my cat 

whom he loved to try to find in our back yard. (She was far too fast for him.) 

I saw it: this energetic dog who gets lost so often, waited expectantly on the sidewalk 

and the man back out of his driveway in his little import car, 

saw me on my bike and smiled, and then embarked up the street 

swinging his left hand out the car window and carefully adjusting his pace

to the speeding black poodle who loves to run. That man used to look at me with concern 

as I live in the units that decades ago people could actually afford on welfare 

and now are simply a bargain for a worker with a full time job. Compared.

This is the change the crop circles portend in the inflation of 2012. The end of materialism. 

“On the highway, it is not rare to see a wave, all alone, one wave separated from the ocean. 
It is absolutely useless, does not constitute a set. 
This is a case of magical spontaneity.” 
- In the Land of Magic


It was also how the dying lake, Lake St Clair, communicated with those who liked to write and to travel. At least somewhat. 

“What most people do all the time is to gnaw on their double. In the land of the Magi, this is absolutely not permitted, theyíll be severely punished, they must reform immediately. 
- In the Land of Magic

All drugs modify your supports. The support you had from your senses, the support your senses had from the world, the support you had from your general impression of being. They give way. A vast redistribution of the sensibility takes place, making everything bizarre- a complex, continual redistribution of the sensibility.” 
-Knowledge Through the Abyss 

Far away from Windsor now, with few opportunities to wander Essex County 

in the middle of the night with only the possums and muskrats invoked 

les amis besoin amis jai , the friends i need i have 

and how i miss them, those waves 

echoing only in the other world 

in the its world, something other than me 

“like the slight whistling of a breeze in the rigging before the storm, a shiver, a shiver without flesh, without skin, an abstract shiver, a shiver in the workshop of the brain, in a zone where you can’t shiver with shivers. How, then, will it shiver? 
- Miserable Miracle\

He who hides his madman, dies voiceless.
- Slices of Knowledge 

How much less hateful men would be if every one of them did not wear a face. 
- Slices of Knowledge

In this century, the phallus is becoming dogmatic. 
- Slices of Knowledge 

Cauldron of thoughts taking itself for a man. 
- Slices of Knowledge 

He who leaves a trace, leaves a wound. 
- Slices of Knowledge 

He who has rejected his demons badgers us to death with his angels. 
- Slices of Knowledge

The heart of a sensitive person suffers too much to love. 
- Slices of Knowledge

To understand, the intelligence must get itself dirty. Above all, before it even gets dirty, it has to get hurt. 
- Slices of Knowledge

Donít act proud. To breath is already to be consenting. Other concessions will follow, each one fitting into the other. Hereís one. Enough, letís stop it.
- Slices of Knowledge

The cry of intimate pain is our cry. But nobody moves. In a hospital, who turns around at a groan? 
- Space of the Shadows

No, no, not gain. Travel to lose. That’s what you need. 
- Tent Posts

Some are dumb for having been too smart. Don’t rush into adaptability. Always hold inadaptability in reserve. 
- Tent Posts

If you manage to sleep, it’s because you’ve had enough of the show, the presence of the real; you can’t take it any more. Sleeping away the most steadfast of your disillusionments. 
- Tent Posts

Critics examine the most recurrent words in a book and count them ! Look instead for the words the author avoided, those he was close to or unmistakably far from, alien to, or fastidious about, whereas others are not. 
- Tent Posts

The more you succeed at writing (if you write), the further you’ll be from fulfilling the pure, strong, original desire — the fundamental thing — to leave no sign. What satisfaction would be worth that ? Writer, you do just the opposite, laboriously opposite. 
- Tent Posts

Perpetual unending changing steady path to extinction.
- Tent Posts

Opening the door inside you, I have entered
To act, I come
I am here
I support you 
You are no longer abandoned
You are no longer in difficulty
The strings untied, your difficulties fall
The nightmare that left you haggard is no more
I am shouldering you
- To act, I come

I appease you
I am spreading out sheets of peace in you
I am soothing the child of your dream
- To act, I come

A crew of reinforcements
In mystery and a deep line
Like an undersea chant
I have come
This chant takes you
This chant raises you up
This chant is animated by many streams
This chant is fed by a calmed Niagara
This chant is entirely for you
- To act, I come

Where pain was, is cotton
Where scattering was, is solder
Where infection was, is new blood
Where locks were is open sea
The carrying sea and the fullness of you
Intact, like an egg of ivory. 
- To act, I come

He who does not accept the world builds no house in it. If he is cold, itís without being cold. He is not without heat. If he chops down birches, itís as if he were chopping down nothing at all, but there are the birches, on the ground, and he takes his agreed-upon-wages, or else he only takes a few punches. He takes the punches like a gift without any particular meaning, and he goes on his way, without being surprised.
- Toward Serenity

IT is the end of materialism? 100 years too soon. 

John