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The Bride of EntropyWords be simple, address the heart, without complexity, with less precision about what is than of what is not. The time of coming blends with the time of going, inflicting sudden resolution upon tentative hearts, demanding ends to beginnings and beginnings to ends beyond simple dissolution or bright becoming. I say what I say and what I say says me. What use to try and have it otherwise? Rid self of white wings ringing chimes atop the inch wide pinnacle of foundation whose base is located among the less probable stars. Perfect moment after struggle, a tangible touch, deeply primitive, beyond voluntary trespass, open only to accident, concealing a fully matriculated skeleton who would rather not know us an uneasy alliance is struck with bone due to the fact we animate it with our lives: it has no guile of its own to guide it only a faint pride glimmering from the marrow, the greater contained in the lesser, rising on the tide of the air. Components lash together, form compounds, ways of coherence able to reassume any shape long held. This is the law of mineral and matter: continue as before and await accident. Memory alone informs the root of this exercise in aggravation. A door swings on customary hinges to reveal a girl reaping the currant bush, the Bride of Entropy, who could do more than strip berry from branch, given the right conditions, but remains disinclined. A statement must be made, something to posit time without the aid of time: quick, decisive, without method statement for its own sake without recourse to memory. All were well if this were well and song might still be sung. Blue field of her bandanna. . . hard to tell if it is blue; if so bluer than what? Judgment favors beauty, beauty favors blue. Shaking her hair on a column of elastic bone, miming fluidity, out of her throat comes music, none sweeter. I steal her berry basket and run fast as I can, try to eat all before she catches me. I wolf them down in a cave sacred to the moment it takes to consume the spoils of love. What if she's armed? She is not armed, I know, but naked, assuming the proportions of a lioness. I hear breathing hills behind me. Breathing hills in which to hide. A curtain of skirt obscures the door to the cave; naked no more, she knows who stole the berries but I am gorged and no longer care who finds me. The good juice of her fruit is my blood now. Caught, scolded, ending in laughter. She is not unkind. She takes my time, a week of my days like captured sunlight escaping a closed room, leaving a little dark presupposing night. I took only berries. I am not poor. I could buy them. I offer money, she defers, says we are even, dangling a bit of daylight across her shoulders like ermine fog. My fingers close upon themselves, unable to grasp the proffered bit of confiscated timeDigging a hole to bury the excess night (she took only the daytime, darkness she has aplenty) I manage to unearth a couple of golden tablets inscribed by a finger of fire. I commit a few lines to memory before tossing them back and refilling the hole with dirt, having no interest in founding any kind of movement and being no collector: This I command: thou shalt make no gold. All other compounds fashion freely. Of gold alone I abjure thee. What gold thou findest in rock, crevice, or by sifting of waters, with that adorn thyself, collect in sacks or barter, but gold which hideth in the heart of lead, this I do forbid thee. This being said and supposing the creation of the forbidden item synonymous with attainable perfection, what would seem to be the major beef? Such whimsical dictates should be disobeyed on principle. It wasn't so hard. In fact it was easy. The formula was clear. One transgression led to another and the gold came slopping out of the spiraling shimmer of magma like butter out of clotted cream. Forbidden, it had to be done. There was no way around it. Might as well have been a direct order. It's worth the ensuing cataclysm. The new rules, differing in detail, will be like the old in essence. We will need to find out what they are to break them.There is a place where the cracks in broken dishes collect to form a continuum of their own; a place whose existence is a closely guarded secret passed clandestinely among the Greeks who had minds to appreciate the anomaly of it, called upon it often in the mending of hostilities or the sealing of friendships by the shattering of crockery. The place intersects this place of ours each time an earthen plate or cup is hurled to stone. Impending breakage acts as invocation, a crack is provided from the store of splits and fissures, the agency withdraws. Where does the crack go when a vessel is perfectly mended? It goes home. Where it came from: a finite place with limited reserves. The selfsame cracks have appeared on a variety of bowls throughout the ages. There is an economy in this which serves as a hedge against full sway of entropy, extending finite time by fractions of a second. They also serve who harbor only moments. After each of the laws of harmony and consecutiveness have been disobeyed in turn, a difficult music begins to divulge its catalogue of resonance and timbre. After tonality itself is discovered to be detachable from music, and the notes, if notes there be, arrange themselves in shadows cast by flaming brand or candle light - the pitch which rings of its own accord in the inner ear will continue to be C above C above high C, a staff above notation. Upon this aural thread, symphonies to come will continue be strung, even in the silence of absorbed vision. It is a tone without duration. It has no time but simply sits in the ear while we pass without passing. There is no substitute for Blue Heaven. The Orange Empyrean will not do service. The Valhalla of High Violet or the Elysium of Indigo are likewise way stations where shreds of hours are collected; only in Blue Heaven are full days accumulated: fissures on a continental scale are dispensed and removed, consigned to other places. Cords connecting worlds may be of silver, gold, cobweb or mere mind but Blue Heaven is attached to us by beams of moon, starlight and sun. Blue Heaven doesn't merely coincide with us, it is a part of our domain: the greater contentedly contained in what is by far the lesser. It is the treasury from which all gold is garnered, repository of jewels, buds and brides all of which flow up and down the several cords connecting our world of dirt, rock and water to the consummate clime beyond clouds. Brides for stone, brides for water, brides for time and tolerance, justice and the other living deeds which wear a woman's face; brides for each but none for men. All are spoken for. Men must find their own among the creatures of their kind. The Brides of Blue Heaven are chaste as we can never be. Adore them from afar while holding to your own betrothed, or forfeit dignity, sanity and time. She is spoken for, the Bride of Entropy, vanishing by degrees in the act of being wed. She has no veils not one, six, nor seven. The bride is naked, holding a bouquet of wine damp roses. She is spoken for, the Bride of Entropy, dissolving in the tacking of the bed, glowing of perfume like an ember dipped in a sachet of spice. The bride is naked holding a bouquet of crisp green celery. She is spoken for, the Bride of Entropy, by no bridegroom discernible in the bright light of moon. She is stitchless beneath a brocade of stars, keening a chill ululation, bearing a bouquet of thin blue fingers, beckoning fingers, pointing to a pathway of anguish dread of doom and doom's symphony played on a taut stave pitched keen as the eye of the ear can see, a path of searing fevered sleepless, scorched vision, chittering madness approaching a rope bridge slung over a chasm on the far side of which sing Bluebirds baby away way over the blue.·Sounding the hammered horn under a parasol of cobweb wearing a crested cap to damp the brimming sun forcing the blood from the lips straining for pitch until the embouchure collapses we expect and forget to expect as we chew, swallow and digest the stripes and stars of a banner symbolizing what we never were and do not expect to be. Self satisfied with our pathetic caches of expertise we are none the less all the starry appendectomy has to offer: ice from heel to pinnacle to dome of very sky laced with clouds and roses. Head of a rose on a celery stalk with roots of thin blue fingers wriggling in the soil, stationary nomads camped by a motionless river whose banks flow by in flood. This to press against, that to hold onto, and this, again, to set alongside that for scale, weight and measure. O Bride of Entropy the faith of faith, faith that rests in faith alone, is a cup too pure for lips to taint. A single droplet colors many seas. Faith in some beginning as may be, in the miracle that dense blankness should ever have lifted to discover day undivided by hours. However this peripatetic world is effected it is endless in that it hasn't ended. This we have seen. Others have ended. We can calculate our own destiny by the evidence of our eyes, and consequently acquire prudence but it is hard to have faith in death, except for others, if death be death and not another crucible of life, inverted to the sun. The supposition of the beholder is: Behold! All die yet I do not die. The world conspires to convince of death through reason. Be not convinced! Dwelling within the fact of this, however elusive, is one specific sliver of the full spectrum of glory.Coming from decisively different places, held in thrall by mutual attraction, I was spherical and inedible, my arms corded with nebulae, my mouth a tunnel under all the seas of earth to the moon. Eyes I had aplenty, all on loan, I borrowed sight from other things, saw with their particular concerns the different joys and tribulations of the world upon whose legs I stood. You were centripetal, petals turning toward the center, lips admitting only light for photosynthesis, your eyes closed inward upon a modest tract of internal self-lit day. Miracle of connexion between what is outermost and what is within. I caught your gaze and you mine, a bridge extended. Each of us assumed the form most pleasing to the other. Dancing in the dark we feel the perfect floor beneath our feet to tango. From another room, to which we are equally blind, voices rise in boastful meter. Wealth and dominion are discussed, declaimed, dismissed. What is this wealth nations boast of? It is not their people. It is the boxes of thin blue fingers stashed away in secret drawers, hidden from hands thin blue fingers that walk in pairs along the avenues extended by cobweb into the soundless white of completion. The friction at the heart of matter is the heat of many thin blue fingers snapping. Here is wealth worth collecting but who can spend it? We reach here and there rummaging around in the dark velvet sack for shapes and senses to assume. Names, we are only names to which characteristics like thistledown adhere, gathered on a trouser leg strolling unkept fields. Who is the darling of your heart? That is the darling of mine as well. The one who least resembles while resembling. Among opposites it is the seed of similarity in what is clearly different that calls across the teeming void demanding embrace. Here a face here an outline of a face projected by imagination on a symmetrical disposition of parts. There is no face just as there is no sky. But there are eyes, yes, and there are clouds. Horizon of mountains horizon of the sea horizon of the brow cut and curve of figure, horizon of the pillow propped against the conservatory window. Nude with a sundial splayed between the horizons of an easel. Bride of Entropy spoken for since words were made.Lacking only love I lie beside a fire in the wild huddled in a skin while wolves and sorcerers stand guard at every passage, great or minor. I, friend of Wind, was sent by her to scatter seed and gather tunes, fingers sharp to pluck strings charming all that slither among stones, toxic with venom, listless at perihelion. I am the lord of snakes and spiders. These are my people, liege of the rat, uncrowned, I sing of things that scurry to the edges of blueblack sky of ragged things inside the ground. My weight is the weight of cadaverous fruit, green beyond ripeness, lacking the love to live, infested by the soul of the swarm, praying to meat and wine, rubbing a salve of spit and sand into sacramental wounds. I have come to claim the bride whom I have spoken for. I have brought her cups of beaten lead, a wedding band of feldspar and a belt of climbing ivy. I am he to whom she was promised while in the cradle; he to whom she was entrusted, sworn to me she bears my mark inside her: a circled star upon the shoulder of her soul. These holes in my heart are of her doing - see I can put a finger through them and feel no pain. Who sent the wolves to hinder me? Who sent them? Have I a rival I know not of? Blood is my beverage. Flesh is my bread, raw on the bone, tenderized by time. My bride, come hear my song. I am wholly yours, be not shy of me. I come to you pouring the root water of desire from regions of red land and human trees, the supple fingered branch, the double trunk unbended at the knee. Please stop singing I cannot follow you! No more of this; your song is blight; the land itself is deafened by cacophony, can no longer flourish beneath the shrill of your litany. I would stop for love but of love I see a feather alone in place of either wing. Lacking a body which should lie between these absent wings, I cannot choose but sing. I am promised to another. The sign on my soul is not the sign you spoke of. Another is myself! See how the scorpion uncurls to me, losing its power to sting see how the waters that shimmer in the air above the sand provide wherewithal to quench thirst to none but me? Do not be shy, come, lie down with me; bride you are, bride that was and bride to be, open your heart. All I hear is treason to the tongue and violence to the ear. Release me. I am not your bride and cannot be! Bride that was and bride to be, salt is my sweetness. I bend my notes to the sepulchral voice that speaks them in a close whisper I alone can hear. This voice is given me. I must speak it as it is or cease from speaking. It is my native tongue, unknown to any other, as yours to you, as the syllables of the moon or conversation of the wind upon the face of water. I take on trust that coherence of a kind flows from them. It may be I am mistaken but to know for certain they must first be spoken, picked over, weighed, polished or discarded, informed with a sense of time and order not born of them; one which may, in fact, betray them. This is the course that defines me and cannot be traded for another. I am large for love, but, beyond that, desire only in my heart to be a known thing, a measure of the harmony the spheres are said to sing by those who hear them. Beyond that I have no calling, no desire for anything except to learn the laws of love and then be ruled by them. Take this veil and hide your nakedness, turn and go where moon birds bleed. You are not dark enough to breed the seed of light in me. · Who beholds you best beholds you dawning. I am distant now from morning things. Dimly, if at all, I see them as reservoirs of useless vivacity doomed to certain end and fresh beginnings. Torrents of long standing leave clear puddles alongside pools of murky water. I avoid the clear, it makes no sense to view with such relentless circularity what seems too plainly to be seen. Eyes have other uses. When vision serves memory it bends its labor to a restless sorting among forms. Let it linger nowhere, passing quickly without pause to name. Let it learn what it learns and, learning, forget, as it sweeps from stone to star across the vertical horizon. Here is a bowl of bright blood oranges invisible to me since I do not hunger and have no wish to paint or otherwise preserve it. Here is a vase of buds too blue for the eye to capture, yet I have seen them from some corner of my vision. Speech offends but must be spoken to thaw the spirals of memory frozen by fixated vision; must be spoken if only to see the old significance weighed against the new, and in so doing rescue and redeem what is common to them both. Then there will be seed for song, reflecting on the face of eternal ice the form and substance of the bride, quick eyed beneath a circlet of witch willow and oleander, standing at the gates of Summer.
Robert Hunter - 1992background:Henri Rousseau "The Dream of Yudwigha"