24 April 2008. April sun. White gull on asphalt lot, strutty walk in search of food, or love, or almost anything at all... Last night: the Tractatus, on bedroom shelf, London, 1969 perhaps. The date and place of the publication of books, Walter Benjamin's phrase--our only form of truth. But wait, let's ask the gull--or Sue, perhaps, the largeish type with graying hair, seated on counter stool, somewhere behind me, across the room. Others wander in and out. Distractions, inevitable distractions. Or are they not the point. Gates of hell, gates of perception--Lancaster, a desert shack with hot and cold, the back country behind LA, perfect setting for an English mind. Endless, arid expanse of the metaphysical--borax, topaz, tourmaline...
"All living beings shall soon be free..."
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