Why did my mother bear me- I crawled out of a stone-do you know the ridiculous entity that calls itself my mother- one could call it a stake, a sharp block or a cone.
It’s beautiful, it’s pointed above and completely round underneath and evenly proportioned on all sides.
But I crawled out of the top.
She can’t laugh and can’t cry and is totally like hard stone.
There is a mark, a sign on earth, that the unpopulated earth is embossed with a law, that everything has to be regular, everything has to be straight or circular.
The old fire can melt and burn away everything, but the black mother stone never melted once it had been formed.
I tremble, its shadow stands above, bright glowing peak on peak.
My father, the fire, concocted this.
I hate my father, whom I still must serve without cease.
Who but I always changes and disturbs the quiet straight and circular work of my mother, I, who have inherited the fire of my father?
I love everything regulated because I love my mother and always disturb it.
Oh, how it captures and soothes me, when I see what is straight and regulated.
I must be there and disturb it, or at least disturb something; it excites me to bring the straight out of its course.
To cross something with a bent line, to suddenly distort something regular-I can’t let it pass.
Then why should the cone that my father irrefutably crafted go tip to tip with my mother’s?
Something crooked would do just as well.
That’s why I lodged a grain of sand between them, which mother could not pulverize and that my father’s fire could not melt. likewise not finding it on earth, nonetheless I caught it when it plummeted from the stars.
That was good stuff that never fails to plague- I shouldn’t say it out loud-it is man. He shouldn’t know that he lies between two cone tips that want to meet each other.
He’s always wanting to make himself soft and tear himself up because of it, the fool, instead of making himself hard and fireproof.
He always wants out of the press, one moment toward earth, one moment toward heaven.
But he can’t do it; he is held captive and if he were clever, he would be strong and fireproof.
He would be like a crystal, but I also disturb him, since I know how one makes him erratic.
That is my secret.
You’re not going to have it, you know enough. ~Ha, The Black Books, Vol. VII, Page 151-152