As I work back through the blog from the beginning, reshaping the work to the single auteur – having perhaps been too slashing when I tried to backtrack edit from the most recent – I have that old sense of fault slip that played so largely in extending the work and delaying publication : the sense that I am not yet the self of my self, that, once again, I am shedding personae.

            I slashed because what I did recently was both experimental and only transitionally necessary.

            My life has been based on finding the single persona. Or, rather, my life has been based in finding the momentary thread that once again insists on my unfragmented condition, the infusing power of value. The saving value sequence has progressively led me to understand reflection and its historical as well as psychological context, something not presently in any textbook.

            Ever since I was fifteen, and the phrase ‘experimental writing’ was still hovering in the common flux, I have always despised and detested it.

            The only writing I find worth reading arrives at the ear word by word, because the writer found the value infusion inherent in language, in the word, in the living symbol and sound, both natural shapechangers.

            Every word is an experiment. But the engrafting force that turns about from awareness to value and value to awareness through the medium of the word stands beyond all experiment. This is precisely the enticement of writing.

            For both kinds of fools.

            But the true fool puts on the coat of many colors.

            Now that I can make my nest in the esoteric, synthesizing things at the core, extant in the living cultural arrays available to us, to bring out relatively new perspectives, (thus, as I have suggested to my confirmation, in fact replacing the gone philosophy of speculative metaphysics with the psychology and philosophy of reflection, validating not only the mystical, but underwriting the core traditions), I need to level the safe walls of my single redoubt.

            Ghosts, dancers, spirits, perhaps even a god or two. No doubt teachers near and far will make their appearance.

            Unlike Whitman, I am not large. Nor am I in fact many.

            This is now my secret.