Unfit to Print:

Unfit to print.

I awoke to the internal sound of "ca va pas changer le monde". The weather outside is reminiscent of Paris on a rainy day, though I would not know it. Il pleut. It's now impossible that in the dream I was James Joyce, living in Paris, writing, fighting his crusade to establish that every thing is fit to print.

The only thing that makes my love notes more risqué than his is that he wrote to someone who'd all ready fucked him.

My dream was Bohemia incarnate. It flows from me with ease now because it lends itself to my ideal lifestyle and my writing style so easily. To sum it up: it is the feeling of being about to get laid. Thankfully it does not possess me with too mad a Dionesyan madness. But it is maddening nonetheless. Hence I awake to clenched teeth and racing thoughts. This is not mania. It is Awakening in every sense. And it is just as Joycean as it is Kafkaesque.

The ordinary structures are falling apart. As I delve more deeply into my love my prosaic attempts to pin it down in English are supplanted by my knowledge of French.

It is as though these last four years have been one long monolingual language game. But now Love and Music are teaching me two new languages, familiar to me but from a Distant Past. It is all most as though my greatest temptation has been to do verbal warfare when the most powerful arguments go unsaid and the most moving poems remain unwritten.

The warning is: don't be afraid of words. Not all anxieties are linguistic. Be more fearful of actions, and most of all a life without action.

Now go get some action!!

Dm.A.A.