Status Updates From Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

“The death of the self of which the great writers speak is no violent act. It is merely the joining of the great rock heart of the earth in its roll.It is merely the slow cessation of the will’s sprints and the intellect’s chatter: it is waiting like a hollowed bell with still tongue. Fuge, tace, quiesce. The waiting itself is the thing.”

“These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore som dim headland, and soon you’re lost in the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing.”

“That something is everywhere and always amiss is part of the very stuff of creation. It is as though each clay form had baked into it, fired into it, a blue streak of no being, a shaded emptiness like. bubble that not only shapes it’s very structure but that also causes it to list and ultimately explode.”

“Either this world, my mother, is a monster, or I myself am a freak.”