Just want to let any potential readers know that I will work on this again tomorrow or this evening, but I have another site, gamanrad, on which I will upload bits of my thesis.
Here, I’m also going to upload sections of a short novel I’ve been writing. Here’s an extract:
The really odd thing is this: I can imagine just how the dog felt. My self in utter misery, in a dog. Myself transported, transmogrified, transfixed by the strange and twisted needs and attachments of the human body that will not allow itself to open into possibilities but always has to wander around until the shape has changed again.
This story is about changing shape. There is nothing it can say about stasis. It is all about dynamic process. And it belongs not to me but to my findings. I am just a magpie, wagtail, raven, jackdaw, pied crow collecting other people’s trinkets. I hope I will become wonderful but I fear I can only imitate intimacy with words.
What I would really like to do is what everyone does who becomes rich and famous: buy love. I yearn for human touch. I long for it. But it is forever banned to me because I have abused the possibility with my stratagems and semantics and semiotics and spilled blood and weird wanton willingness to overburden the possibility with facts. We are only as good as the ones we imitate and my examples all had feet of clay. I so want to lead the world to perfection but there is nothing I can do about the way things are except accept them.
I leave the door open while I meditate these days and a young rabbit hops into the warmth of the room as we wittle away the time until the two of us die. I can see the raven at the door. I adore it. There is no better bird. The rabbit, however, is terrified and seeks as swift as light an exit but there is no room for him between the shadow of the crow’s wings and the sky and so he makes for the fire and flight forces him to shove himself into the hole below my seat which is the stoking chute. I cry out, but he screams and is dead. Now there’s nothing to do but wait.
I wish a woman would come out of the sea like they did in the old days and greet me thankfully and smile at her own nakedness and see me as a charmless hermit, harmless, and watch the raven and allow it to stroke her with its bleached beak. Wow.
Tragedy is a trajectory that throws us forwards like a spear into the heart of a fate we cannot yet imagine how to tolerate. Then of course there is the element of transformation that is a death but also a liberation. And yet death, for the living, is just an end. A boundaried margin around which we wander, encircling ourselves in it for identity and meaning which, as soon as found, is forgotten.