Just type and strings of words will out

from your belly flow like an unending torrent that seeks its way in a parched and barren land. Old men say that quiet seeks quiet and the only refuge for the broken man is the shelter from the shade of the unforgiving sun. But the aged speak from experience. From loss of love and life, from disappointment and disllusionment. Just write and from the flicking of your wrists and fingers you will find the stream of consciousness starts to define itself - organising strings from streams, links from modes, modules from chunks and areas from spaces. Only stop when you need to break the flow that grows too meanancing for your fingers to control. Only pause when you need to fulfil the physiological needs of the flesh and the body and the whims of ordinary living. But them just write and find the voices within rise within, rise from whence they once found hidden meaning. From the innermost belly - forth comes - comes forth, what froths other than milk than has been churned up and bubbled up and screamed up in a long tall Cup?

Instead of pen and paper - just write - electronic specks a multitude of calculations turning thought into alogrithmic pulse - making thought permanent, reducible, binary. Zero One Zero is the choice of the age when nothing else is the colour but a shading of black and white. I use the backspace too much. I should just let aqll the weroors stand in nakedn unabshement - how difficult then would translated thought be to read. Just write. The first draft is alsways written from the heart then youy go through it with the mercilessness of the pen to erase that which you are too afraid will show your inadequacies and trnaspeacrnesies ot thought. Tjust Write and see twhan will appeare on the screen as an experiencementi nthe free forme space out speed tyrping and all that beomes liquisd turns solid agains as you pause to try to gains some sense of where all this ois oging.

The ultimate novel of our times - is written in the thoughtlessnessof the machine. the faster it moves the more the pages get written. Written in the thoughtless ness of speed and movement. Writtten in the imponderables that evade even the spirit. What remains is translating that novel into space into language into constested ground. No novel should exist beyond the reach of argument of critique of evaluation.

Sometimes when I gather ideas about you I find a sob choke in the throat. UNable to continue with more than one thought at a time I blind myself from thought I specialise in the art of staring blankly. In sleep, I no longer dream for the imaginative life has been crowded out by the repetition of cautiousness. In life, I am crowded out by flab and physical exhaustion. When I gather ideas about you I find it impossible to coutn as my muse your image in my minds eye. All the moments that we've talked about art and life and what it's all about seems to diminish when I try to replace the vague sense of your presence. Does art merely come from the flesh - the tingling when you are near? Are artist able with that strange premonition to cultivate a senselessness so that the moment of creation becomes the sense rather than merely mapping the sense? All the ailments associated with the deranged must finally accumulate in a recepticle - and that may be the artist. Was Jackson Pollack mad or a Genius? Drip Drip Drip paint over the sheet - invention 2 in gradiant schemes - titles longer and more eventful than spolches or paint. Who will eat with me? Who will drink a glass of coke? Who will persist no matter what? Who will read read and read again?

And the surfs' up and beach is dry and the seagulls have turned into albatrosses across the stony ground. Nothing takes root save the discarded cans and cups and shrouded paper bags and pink plastic strings and jaded open eyed insects breaking into view. Rocks are flat on sides. Made from the ocean's spray, chiselled by the forces of god - they skim well even in the tide. The row of people diminishes when I try to picture you. But even skimming rocks on the surface is a foiled attempt for they bounce off. And so each skimming rock speaks of a lost moment that launched out into a potential moment of words nearly becoming meaningful. Merely translates into a failed attempt at disclosure. Conversations that lead on are supposed to tell more and no hide away. But being led on by emotion first it becomes impossible to speak your mind isn't it? For how much do you dare to break out into the open? Unlike the rockss, these missle launches will not sink but float like flaunted flags to catch the breeze and hang stagnant in the air. Like rocks skimming the surf - turbulence not the glassy sea - roar - skim shot through with foam and the impossiblity of the attempt amuses all. One solitary mudskipper is all that on a rock tried to launch himself into the sun. He ran awhile on the dryness before the algae and slippery surfaces tempted him too high up. Apart from the sea, he could no longer with gleeful skip make himself master of the muddy domain. Strayed awhile from the sea, into the domain of the sun, he become positioned for the sun's rays. When mud is baked dry all emotion is solidified and there is no longer the fluidity, the space, the ambiguity,for the wrong signals to be productive. But by the sea- every wrong signal ramifies in meaning - expands in significance, affords emotional investment that is never worth it. By the sea - all things are.