(11:40 PM) | Brad:

Barrow Full of Rocks

Under the yellow plastic Ryman bag that was its cover the yellow paper growled softly. Lover, come back to me, it whispered. It was so good, so good that last time when you took me while I was sleeping. Where are you?

He's not here today, said Word. I am.

Not you, whimpered the yellow paper. Not the enormity of you. No, no, please, you're hurting me. O my God the awful tremendousness of you, you, you, you . . .

Like thunder and lightening the seed of Word jetted into the yellow paper. Now, said Word, there you are. I've quickened you. Let them die in their hundreds and their thousands, from time to time one of them must wiggle through. I see to that.

The yellow paper was weeping quietly. He wanted ... He wanted ... it sobbed.
Yes, said Word. He wanted?

He wanted to be the only one, he wanted to do it all himself. Nobody does it all himself, said Word. Nobody does it unless I have shot my seed as well. Barrow full of rocks and all that.

What? said the yellow paper. What barrow full of rocks, harrow full of crocks, arrow in a box? What is that?

Something that passes through the cosmos of me now and then, said Word. One of myriad flashes, nothing special, faster than the speed of light they come and go. What did I say, my mind is elsewhere.

Barrow full of rocks, said the yellow paper.

Yes, said Word. My minds is full of every kind of nonsense. Something like the way odd tunes and scraps of things get into human minds and sing themselves over and over again, but vastly faster.

Barrow full of rocks? said the yellow paper.

That's just my name for it, said Word. A pneumatic.

Mnemonic, said the yellow paper.

Whatever you like, said Word. The line is by Pilkins.

Milton? said the yellow paper.

Something like that, said Word. 'Hidden soul of harmony' is what he said. I like that. It sings. 'Untwisting all the chains that ty / The hidden soul of harmony.' That's nice. I'll think of it again some time.

Do you mean to tell me, said the yellow paper, that 'Barrow full of rocks;' is nothing more than a mnemonic for 'Hidden soul of harmony"?

Precisely, said Word.

That's outrageous, said the yellow paper. And on top of that they're nothing like each other.

Of course not, said Word. If the mnemonic is the same as what it reminds you of why bother with it. I don't even like them to be too close. If you have a nice thing to think about you don't want to keep it out in plain view all the time, you know, with the virtue getting rubbed off it. Keep it dark is what I say.

The whole things's quite beyond me, said the yellow paper.

Of course it is, said Word. Beyond me too, and roundabout.

But your wretched barrow full of rocks has got into human minds, said the yellow paper. Your miserable mnemonic, not even the thin it refers to. For a flash through your mind, for an odd tune come and gone like lightning, men suffer and die riddling where there is no riddle, digging where there is no treasure.

Why not, said Word. That's what men are for. From time to time, as I said, I see to it that one wiggles through.

Kleinzeit? said the yellow paper.

I don't know what his name is, said Word, and I don't care. Whoever it is that writes on you, let him get on with it. It's in you now.

But is that, you know, artistically right? said the yellow paper. Isn't it sort of the god from the machine?

Don't be ridiculous, said Word. The machine, whether typewriter or Japanese pen, is from the god. Where else could it be from.

You're a god then? said the yellow paper.

I employ gods, said Word, and left.

Kleinzeit mustn't know what happened, whispered the yellow paper. I'll never tell him. Lover, come back to me.

| permalink | Main Page