540
PARTISAN REVIEW
that the past, the net of the name-giving surface-perceiving past
is
my future again, and I go out into the past, into the trail of the cold
eye of past relationship, he eye of my I at home in the object-filled
chaos of any ego I choose, at least for this short while between the
stirrup and the ground, for in an instant-will it be eternally long?
like some cell at the crisis of its cellvish destiny, I race into the mid–
night mind, the dream-haunted determinations of that God of whom
I was a part, and will He choose me to be born again? have I proven
one of his best? am I embryo in some belly of the divisible feminine
Time, or is the journey yet to make? Or worst of all am I?-and the
cry which is without sound shrieks in my ears-am I already on the
way out? a fetor of God's brown sausage in His time of diarrhea, ooz–
ing and sucking and bleating like a fecal puppy about to pass away
past the last pinch of the divine sphincter with only the toilet of Time,
oldest hag of them all, to spin me away into the spiral of star-lit
empty waters.
So I approach Him, if I have not already lost Him, God, in
His
destiny,
in
which He may succeed, or tragically fail, for God like
Us
suffers the ambition to make a destiny more extraordinary than was
conceived for Him, yes God is like Me, only more so.
Unless-spinning instead through the dark of some inner Space
-the winds are icy here-I do no more than delude myself, fall
back into that hopeless odyssey where libido never lingers, and my
nature is nothing other than to search for the Devil while I carry
with me the minds of some of you.
