It depends how you begin. Or, unless you're in a funny mood & you can just fly-off anyway, the writing induces you, the motion of it perhaps, the rhythm, like the shamans use the drums. Which is always the plan. But then I always get all caught-up trying to make something coherent. Whatever that means.
Though I know what it means, of course. Like an encyclopedia entry,—Jesus, it's been so long—a little description of Daniel Webster, or something, it describes his life, who he was a bit, his education, what he did, all this. Or borage you look-up perhaps, & the encyclopedia tells you everything about it. It all makes perfect sense.
But according to whom? If I open the encyclopedia to Benjamin Franklin, let's say, & there's a picture of 2 golden ducks fighting over the internet, who gets to use it before bed, & one of them is missing an eye. There's a little ferret with a skateboard frying the iris over a fire. The description reads something like this: Fire tongues & teenage tires, they spin till Saturday. He was a garbage truck, that Paul, never could get over the hump—3 books. All by December, he had to ring for paint. A few chickens, but no cows, no, they were off on the weekends there in Africa.
Why does this not make sense, but the inscription in any standard encyclopedia does? What are words, & who wrote the rules? If I tell you, that my turkeys are tender & I haven't ate moons since France was plundered by packs of cats, but I forgot to ask where they swallowed the cigarettes. What do you think about that? Sounds a lot to me like your theories I can't understand when you're stript of your Maths.
You say that there's no meaning in these words, perhaps, the chicken-scratch above. On the contrary, I say there is. You have to read between the lines, it all means something to me, images that pop in the mind. If you're asking me to understand your sub-atomic theory on economics as an explanation to the growing epidemic of the clap in China, then I'm asking you to understand me, just the same. There's eternity in my words, the philosopher's stone, the secret of life, balance, if you'd just stop garbling for one second.
But it's all a heap of non-sense, let me tell you in on the secret. Somehow it's all managed to stand. But we got nowhere else to go now, trapped in the glass, scratching & scratching, which built it all as we see. This is the fundamental problem, our encyclopedia entries. Burn all the books. They all come from you now, & from me. Cast-off your virgin robes & come have a swim. The great goblin in the sky is waiting to split-open your shirt with the flick of a nail, to poke your belly for a little laugh, what. A crow plucks-out one eye, a squirrel buries the other.