Lost for Words – The Ghost of Arthur Rimbaud, Pt. 1

The barefooted drummer beating a folded newspaper with whisked brooms in lieu of a drum; stirs the eyes ear, like a blast of brasses on a midnight street.He thought to himself; “now there’s a sentence!”. You could look a it forever, and hear it for even longer.

ALL you would do all your life, is move from word to word – from sound to sound, from rhyme to rhyme, street to street, eye to eye, time to time.

And still, it would never wear out.

Never fall from grace.

Never die.And here’s another one!Imagine writing this:His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.He often imagined what it would be like to write such a sentence, to end up in such a place, such a center of concentration.
Such a level of precision.To not so much as to create a new world as a very special and alert awareness of one.To follow in the damned dandy dreamed footsteps of Ralph Emerson or James Joyce.

Tuning, playing language to a lyric pitch without being flung into a fit of imitation.

To understand what it is to be invisible.
To fly.
To stretch your wings.
To spin a masterpiece from thin air.

To find a vacant seat, on a crowded bus.
–
At night, just after twelve, when he sensed that most of the people he lived near who he never saw were asleep, and deeply lost; in many way not human. When the house is quiet, and the world is calm, he thought about writing the first sentence.

How did he decide what that first sentence was going to be, work out the nature of the very first incision?

What was it going to be about?
Would it be all his own work?
Was he going to explain something in his own words?

It’s a long story, and really, to cut a long story short; the story hasn’t ended yet

He had spent some time possibly even years working out what the best time of day was, to write the sort of sentence that would be the very best sentence he had ever written.

He was always searching for that perfect sentence.

Eventually it became clear after all his research, that the best time of day, was at night; just after 12, at a quiet place, away from others. When he sensed how words were like ghosts, and every word was a haunting.

A stunning culmination of an uncanny process that had begun millions of years ago; millions of tears ago.

A process that had turned noise into meaning. That made sense of the drama of life.

Of the relationships between names, and essence.