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Sutherland saw her, and sings. And all questions of relay-(myth-rit-or-other-wise) are lost in choiring, all religious becoming:
"Mountains and mountains of saints singing and singing" and I am delighted, of light air breathing; and all dark lording it over is over, leaving only super-stich for a thread of Proustian "dress-making, " and that too passing into remembrance and out of immediacy of experienced singing:
"I am not I when I see" or laughing down all criti-cat-calling and The-arising:
"Oh, praise, praise, praise! " making margin without alien: \ QS # .
S
SI *S
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And now I am truly false if with this ending, back to all beginnings. Is this then but another ring with which to bind 'em?; all these pages so much mumblety for such unchivalric pegging?; am I still in-flu with now Steinian spiritus anti -bodying?; will I will out with mu-sick, testamentioning theRuggled-lvesy-covered-Weberning-Cage-of-a-Stockhausen, making a paraphrase of Varese because his name, like all else of him, won't fit a metaphorical line-up, drowning St Subotnick 'clause to all the new sound word ear rationals such as Tenney-Sender-Mumma-Young-and-Ashley-Krumm, (and where-e-ohwhere'll Berio go), and what has it all to do with Ann Arbor, St. Francis, and enfantterrible York?; and would I do better to say "zen," moan "A," pursue the water-lillies spreading Pollock in the air and follow thru the process to "deK"?; or would a sound ring influenzing describe a film more filmically than script, than art, than arc-key, than spiri-spherically?; and is a film, a HI, a fi-fie-foe-fiddle-di-dum? A Post Script
Three nights ago I decided to stop righting. Later, when I turned in somnia, the darkened room full filled itself with growing branches glowing white which, when thought of as related to Michael McClure's "cracks of brightness, " Lamantia's "Weir, " Anglo-Saxon "Aelf-Scin, " all faded, died to the eyes, leaving me once again in the dark. Thus, the last several hundred words since the last word of ended ritual, a "Beware the Dog" who might go as I have here into the House of the Poet, the Seance, Sancti-or-scientified, knick-knacking and knocking about, looking for keys and key-rings, symbols, sturms and drangsss, et sets. I am thru writing, thru writing. It is only as of use as useless. Foot Notes
*(The whole Broughton poem had to be fished for downstream among the rocks and rapids:
"Let it be. Let me be here by the sea
like the boatman I saw in Bangkok smiling by the sunrise river as he washes, as he pours over himself a bucket of the river, pours over and over himself the river to which he has offered his spit, his urine, his shit, the river which he drinks and launders in — pours it over himself with a smile as he washes — and then sits down refreshed and starts fishing."
**(The statement by Clyfford Still as quoted by Michael McClure in his first Hymn to St. Geryon):
Clyfford Still: "We are committed to an unqualified act, not illustrating outworn myths or contemporary alibis. One must accept total responsibility for what he executes. And the measure of his areatness will be the depth of his insight and courage in realizing his