XX.
Any Where is a real halfway house. It's a halfway house for surrealism, more than it is for surrealists, although everything's welcome. I'm only halfway sure if the door is always wide open; some days it seems halfway closed, although you never can tell for sure. Like the pieces in a dream, in the dream, have you ever-sometimes truly been uncertain, of the identity, of an Anybody? Of anything, of some one? In a dream. If everything is like blood, the door at Any Where is the living heart of an animal: In Out In Out In. Out In Out. In Out In Out. If sentences could never start and never end, the sentence I would write here would contain both words, only two words, maybe a million different two words. The door at Any Where is a threshold, is time, of time. The Experience.
I did not go through one side to get to the other. The living heart of an animal is always beating: never the same beat, never the same blood, always the same, always beating. For all of being living, the heart is the same never the same. The animal is the animal always different, because a moment makes a difference, different moment. I have done things, I was somebody, lots and lots of somebodies, one for every moment who I was, was who I was. And now it's still the same, still different, even now, even now. Even you. Even words, even ever. Even never. It's all real, it's all separate all together all the way all all just one. Just many. More than one. I travel all around, I'm always going to new places, it never changes, even when "never changes" changes, because what never changes is "always changes." Halfway is the only suitable compromise here. Any Where is a halfway stop on the Real Express route, the Expressive Rail trail, the Train Of Thought express, and even the Halfway Railway way.
It's not really a place that you find, but you can lose it when you travel. I travel all around, and I don't; I spend my life on one train or another, Halfway, and halfway true things seem to be the truest. Halfway thinking feels confusing, halfway feeling feels halfway. Who knows, who knows: halfway is for living. Living is for who knows, and so is death. And so is halfway. All for the other, never to get to the other side. For not for. Half-way-door.
I am a string, stretched taught between-in No two Points, between-in one strange loop, and plucked; life the measure of vibrations if time the measure of change. Movement, movement. The parts composing me came together, moved me, as though I were plucked, and I resonated with other strings that came near me. Maybe with the collective hum of all strings, each string so quiet, collectively too huge to not be a part of. Now, now, the string moves back and forth between black and white, and every time I get to black it could be white, the frequency so high, the amplitude decreased, no time to orient. Black or white, neither/either. I’m not in either, I’m in both. I’m in both/and/either/or. I’m not moving between black and white, I am movement and between-in. Confusion is gray, but so is clarity; when you hit the middle, it is only living, and there are no words, no words for black or white or gray, except direct experience of Anything, contained in single words and not, not for others, not for always. Fools look at fingers that point to the sky. But there are no single points for everything, for direct experiences, except itselves that can’t be somethings, that can only be living, and dying. Not eithers, Everything boths. The fool who looks at the finger and does not think and sees everything doesn’t need to look at the sky. The sky is in the finger, the finger in the sky, the point doesn’t exist. Only halfway.
