“......we have dreamt the world. We have dreamt it resistant, mysterious, visible, ubiquitous in space and firm in time; but we have left in its architecture tenuous and eternal interstices of unreason, so that we know it is false.”- Borges
"So I went to the angel and asked him to give me the little scroll. He said to me, "Take it and eat it. It will turn your stomach sour, its bitter....but 'in your mouth it will be as sweet as honey."
Borges and I walked through the still life of a gossamer fabric undone, a psychic tear within an indelible and pervasive wound folding up like a cheap umbrella in the chaotic hoard of asteroids unleashed from pixels burning the atmosphere in a metallic ringing sound , a concussive rent that lingers..a tearing.
We walked through the pulverized ruins of dust that floated in the dry heat through Gaza, The dust pulled water into an acidic bitterness that sucked the humidity from our lungs. Borges had managed the removal of time from within the infinity of metaphors to erase any trace of our passage and whatever we passed was if in a gallery of images we had memorized from childhood, this is that, there is over here as it’s corruption had ceased in it’s nexus to become what it is not. Corpses as criticism within a rhetoric so black it illuminated what may be.
Gaza at the well of a spring pouring back onto itself, receding into a blurring of any distinctions we could triangulate as arising from ourselves.
The sun dispensed a grey or was it a sepia tone to this retrocausal scrapbook of primary images devouring themselves into a sour smelling series of pools congealing at the head of this child, evaporating as it was pulled into the dust as a mortar, a clay of eternal return waiting for a spark, a flash of lightning that would organize these images back from whence they came ..premature, stillborn, thrashing yet as lifeless as a plastic cup...one that rolled down a hill beyond our sight.
Borges pointed to a soldier also frozen into statuary in our invisible passage through this conflagration of becoming what is not. Can you decipher this?, he asked. No, I mumbled trying to avoid what I saw. Borges sighed. He is enthralled with a terrible beauty he is drawing from compulsion to be a character not quite here or there, immune from becoming but what has he become? A something between A and B , an unknown metaphor for a book he imagined he has read. A bridge too far? I asked.
Or should I say as we slip way undone to be yet again rethought as between another A and B, another universe stacked atop one another in a frenzy of calculated randomness, as it were a lottery of recombinant potential in search of a plausible story line. This is the danger of giving up your comfortable chair. This is Gaza.I must return to a beginning Borges said, back to the library back into page seven. I leave you to return to becoming whatever it is you have imagined has become and we will both search to be recognized by what is incommensurable.