As I was saying, if not now, then in some other tendency of prattle: consciousness does not stream. I see it more as a swarm of honey bees migrating from one hive to another, floating across the field slowly like a child’s balloon following a current of air. A new queen flying amid the pulse of hundreds of drones, each intent, true courtiers, on her – – the universe’s center. Of course, at the same time, as it longs to stay close to the mode, each thought strives to spring forth, leaving its prescribed orbit – – much as electrons dance about the nucleus – –leaping excitedly from valence to valence. Or at least I like to think; yet, words do chase each other along the well-worn trail due to the nature of language’s traditions: letters, words, sentences, page after page of apparent sequence lulls us, like a baby to a roundel, into a false sense of causality: someone must be in charge – – command, reason, the hierarchy of being, mountain spring to delta’s mouth kissing the ocean – – instead of the collective focus of bees.
(August 2001-April 2003)