Wounds.

The wounds are in the tissue. The tissue can be organic, but it can also be of a different kind, less tangible. I was going to write that it is less obvious and made of the matter of memory, but I won’t, because I am more and more attracted to the conviction – which also becomes more and more strongly visible in the mainstream – that it is the memory that is the principle of existence, the very essence of all organic and inorganic matter. Besides, no tissue is obvious; rather, it is quite bewildering. I will therefore resort to a riskier formula and write that, beyond the organic tissue, the tissue that can be wounded is made up of the matter of consciousness. To put it shortly, wounds can be in the consciousness. Or perhaps it is that consciousness in itself is a wound. In some basic fabric of the universe. In the void, that is. An ostensible hole in nothingness that transforms into a scar, and subsequent scars form the memory. The memory of the wound constitutes the universe.


Having pondered for a moment, now back to the real work. The first big fragment of the Tale is almost ready. In terms of content, it’s about one third, in terms of time – perhaps slightly less than that. So far it has been quite melodic, harmonic, with elements of some measured vitalism; now I will probably have less defined pitch. With a slightly freer rhythm.


The Reptile also progressing. I am picking up the pace.


(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)