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luminous
stupidity.
    There is much I cannot tell you. I am not going to be
autobiographical. I want to be “bio.”
    I write with the flow of the words.
    Before the appearance of the mirror, the person didn’t
know his own face except reflected in the waters of a lake. After a certain
point everyone is responsible for the face he has. I’ll now look at mine. It is
a naked face. And when I think that no other like it exists in the world, I get
a happy shock. Nor will there ever be. Never is the impossible. I like never. I
also like ever. What is there between never and ever that links them so
indirectly and intimately?
    At the bottom of everything there is the hallelujah.
    This instant is. You who read me are.
    I find it hard to believe that I shall die. Because I’m
bubbling in cold freshness. My life will be very long because each instant is. I
get the feeling I’m about to be born and can’t.
    I am a heart beating in the world.
    You who are reading me please help me to be born.
    Wait: it’s getting dark. Darker.
    And darker.
    The instant is of total darkness.
    It goes on.
    Wait: I begin to glimpse a thing. A luminescent shape. A
milky belly with a navel? Wait—because I shall emerge from this darkness where
I am afraid, darkness and ecstasy. I am the heart of the shadow.
    The problem is that the curtain over the window of my
room is defective. It is stuck and so it doesn’t close. So the whole full moon
enters and phosphoresces the room with silences: it’s horrible.
    Now the shadows are retreating.
    I was born.
    Pause.
    Marvelous scandal: I am born.
    My eyes are shut. I am pure unconsciousness. They already
cut the umbilical cord: I am unattached in the universe. I don’t think but feel
the
it
. With my eyes I blindly seek the breast: I want thick milk. No
one taught me to want. But I already want. I’m lying with my eyes open looking
at the ceiling. Inside is the darkness. An I that pulses already forms. There
are sunflowers. There is tall wheat. I is.
    I hear the hollow boom of time. It’s the world deafly
forming. If I can hear that is because I exist before the formation of time. “I
am” is the world. World without time. My consciousness now is light and it is
air. Air has neither place nor time. Air is the non-place where everything will
exist. What I am writing is the music of the air. The formation of the world.
Slowly what will be approaches. What will be already is. The future is ahead and
behind and to either side. The future is what always existed and always will
exist. Even if Time is abolished? What I’m writing to you is not for reading—
it’s for being. The trumpets of the angel-beings echo in the without time. The
first flower is born in the air. The ground that is earth forms. The rest is air
and the rest is slow fire in perpetual mutation. Does the word “perpetual” not
exist because time does not exist? But the boom exists. And this existence of
mine starts to exist. Is that time starting?
    It suddenly occurred to me that you don’t need order to
live. There is no pattern to follow and the pattern itself doesn’t even exist: I
am born.
    I’m still not ready to talk about “he” or “she.” I
demonstrate “that.” That is universal law. Birth and death. Birth. Death. Birth
and—like a breathing of the world.
    I am pure
it
that was pulsing rhythmically. But
I can feel that soon I shall be ready to talk about he or she. I’m not promising
you a story here. But there’s
it
. Bearable?
It
is soft and is
oyster and is placenta. I am not joking because I am not a synonym—I am the
name itself. There is a thread of steel going through all that I am writing you.
There’s the future. Which is today.
    My vast night goes by in the primary of a latency. The
hand touches the earth and listens hotly to a heart pulsing. I see the great
white slug with a woman’s breasts: is that a human entity? I burn it in an
inquisitorial bonfire. I have the mysticism of the darkness of a remote