Ahmed
A young man—Ahmed. Smiling radiant eyes, endowed with “animal eroticism.” Is that the word for it? Moving toward—the limits of being human. Becoming animal—becoming scorpion, becoming serpent? How could I write about him—would he flee my writing? Escape from me? Stammering—I make language stammer with wonder, I'd rather have language that stammers like the speech of a young idiot savant. Writing thru him—writing in a language not of my own tongue? Traveling—traveling across the desert toward what? For Bowles—the desert was his surreal illumination opening up. For Rimbaud writing—became a calligraphy of silence, his sad solitude, escaping the Parnassus pricks back in Paris. Writing with the phrase “and then”—rather than the constant cloying Western idiom of “because." Writing not because of anything, but rather letting Ahmed turn me more & more into the young erotic animal that is him next to me in bed...
A young man—Ahmed. Smiling radiant eyes, endowed with “animal eroticism.” Is that the word for it? Moving toward—the limits of being human. Becoming animal—becoming scorpion, becoming serpent? How could I write about him—would he flee my writing? Escape from me? Stammering—I make language stammer with wonder, I'd rather have language that stammers like the speech of a young idiot savant. Writing thru him—writing in a language not of my own tongue? Traveling—traveling across the desert toward what? For Bowles—the desert was his surreal illumination opening up. For Rimbaud writing—became a calligraphy of silence, his sad solitude, escaping the Parnassus pricks back in Paris. Writing with the phrase “and then”—rather than the constant cloying Western idiom of “because." Writing not because of anything, but rather letting Ahmed turn me more & more into the young erotic animal that is him next to me in bed...
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