It always amazes me how thinking about thinking can cause such awful thoughts. They appear, these awful thoughts, whether I think them or not, whether I am conscious of thinking thoughts at all, or at all unconscious of thinking that I might be thinking thoughts consciously. Therein lays the paradox, the teleological mansard. I have no antacids or stool softeners, so my stomach, which is taunt as a kettle drum, will have to put up with this horrid gastrointestinal unsettledness. The Tin Drum puts me in mind of people falling down stairs and cuffing their heads on stiles and buttresses; or simply causes me to think that I might, in fact, be thinking, yet unaware, unwary, that I am capable of thinking thoughts at all. German literature tends to do this sort of thing to me, against my mansard and better judgment. Hesse hung out at Teutonic gatherings staring at steeples and some chap with a Masonic helmet with a point on the crest. Which brings to mind, as it should, thinking about Nietzsche’s soft fontanel and beady eyes, and his ears, my goodness it’s a wonder the man heard a thing, they were so denticulate and small natured. Poor sod. I once allowed my own moustache to grow out at angles to my cheekbones, never once passing judgment on wax or septic pencils, or crayons or pastels for that matter, not that it matters in the least, or should, I suppose. Am I thinking, thinking now, right now at this very moment, or simply thinking that I am, in fact, thinking? This certainly enters my thoughts, thoughtless as they are, or would be if I were capable of thinking thoughts at all, which I’m inclined to believe I am not, but thought it was worth a try anyhow. My stomach is sore, taut as a Tin drum.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
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About Me
- Stephen Rowntree
- "Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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