Spinning

around

and around

and around and around

a cyclone

a merry-go-round

a toilet bowl

spinning

what waits at the center?

where will I go?

keep spinning

keep turning

I don’t want to know

I want to keep spinning

near one edge

then to the other

then round again

until I’m pulled under

a life in a circle

can never

end

they’re stopping

who’s spinning?

around

and around

still

why are you so still?

can’t you spin?

don’t you want to?

I’m dizzy

oh so dizzy

from turning

and spinning

but me

I’m all of me

not who I thought

I’d be

you don’t know me

you can’t

I don’t know me

I can’t

I’m free in the spin

free to get lost

free to give in

I stopped taking my medication

we’re spinning

around

and around

and around and around

we can’t stop

skin drawn tight

alone

on an astral steppe

spinning

---

There is a strangeness to this poem, one that makes it difficult to translate. I have put forth all my effort, but have been incapable of making any headway. It is as if I am—as the poem states—spinning around and around inside it. It is as if it is a law, a truth that shakes everything Tableau stands for and has done. I feel as if this poem’s meaning has been hidden from me, with or without intention. This notion shakes me and creates in me a new sort of fear and curiosity in regard to the facility and the one we follow.

The Painted Man has been able to create art for the piece, and I am sure it connects in some way, but I can only read and wonder. Perhaps whatever is being communicated is not meant for me to understand.

Unless I come to any new revelations, I have no notes to share as I usually do. Therefore, there will not be the usual post tomorrow.

Hope Mixes

—The Translator