an emotional alphabet


question: you mentioned, in one of your earlier poems, the phrase, "emotional alphabet." what exactly do you mean by that?

diana: emotions can be communicated but not unless there are some agreed upon standards for their communication. that's an emotional alphabet or grammar or lexicon. but i like alphabet because if all we agree on is the alphabet, then we don't take for granted that we are all seeing and believing the same things.

question: are you talking about conformity?

diana: i guess so. but conformity is camouflage, it's not real. we can imitate each other but we can't become the same form as they are. form is as unique in people as in any other manifested perceivable entity. i was thinking about eating, after our conversation yesterday. i was thinking that i sometimes think that everything is food.

question: that's a bit fava beans.

diana: of course. that's why that concept works. but what if it's not creepy? what if it's simply the way nature works?

question: the snake that self devours?

diana: you know about that?

question: yes.

diana: the circle of life. we annihilate each other but it's fun.

question: wow.

diana: you don't think so?

question: no.

diana: but that's what you're doing here. you are here to take my story, to take my life, to take my thoughts, to take my feelings and you will get paid for altering them so that your audience will be able to devour them.

question: (no statement or sound)

diana: does that upset you? to notice that you are as much a cannibal as anyone else? as me, for instance? should i tell you a story while you are catching your breath? i was standing on a cliff, overlooking nothing at all, and i was swept away into the sky and met a beautiful man, he looked like an american indian, long black hair, broad shoulders, eyes that laugh and cry all at once. this man embraced me and we hovered over a canyon and he pointed out the people in the houses, some were happy and some not so happy. but all of them completely involved in their own moment, their own story, their own desires fulfilling or despoiling. a world in motion. then i was back on the road, walking home. when i got home my father beat me. there was no reason why. amazing shift in perceptions for one day. surrealism isn't unrealistic. your realisms are all selling you something. see the world my way, no mine and on and on. but you will notice that only some people thrive, only some people are able to stay immune to the piranha. anyway, i met the indian man finally, i knew it was him. we spent an, of course, magical night together, speaking very little. but you said i had to be careful about what i speak about.


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