Geof Huth schreef een ontroerend stuk over de gisteren overleden (visueel) dichter Tom Taylor.

We are, after all, nothing but poets, who are only people who write books no one will ever read. But we are infinite. Our lives are infinite.

Tom Taylor over waarom hij schreef:

We were going to take over the world, replace an obsolete discourse with one which was more efficient in its relation of conscious to unconscious, somehow more aligned: no thing but in seeing. But you forget along the way that the way is there at all, and so I wrote for all the reasons one could have, I made it my reason for existence, an esoteric, private activity which explained my moodiness and my inability to share myself with others in intimate relationships, be they colleagues or wives or my own children. I wrote from arrogant self-righteousness to blind, drunken (averted) rage, to the isolation of the secret masturbater. Isolated and you desperate for the company of others, so afraid to be alone in my “genius”, as it unfolded from calm intention through self loathing and sabotage to addiction and personality disorders and the absurd vow of poverty, those were part of the deal, and so I kept writing, day after day, page after page of black scratch on yellow paper. I courted chance, error and those compositional mistakes which the unconscious to penetrate through and into conscious mentation, like Gurdjieff’s monks chanting in such perfect union that the world itself ceases to exist at all.

I became aware of the disjunct and the profunct in my self. At writing, I would continue to feel the sacred rush & focus of depth-diving not experienced in any drug or ecstatic love state. I became addicted to the “passing beyond” one can experience in the repetitions of time and space manipulation in the writing act that one learns to control. I wrote to allay (escape) my depressive states, sinking through them and their associated pain to discover the inebriation of the poem. I did not really want to experience any real feeling at all, and so I stayed in the world of my own creation, with its autism of self and song; “the play of the mind, to see whether there is any mind there at all.” (Olson)