What was the name of the hundred-handed being in Greek myth? It is literally A Hundred Hands, Hecatoncheires. (Public Opinion was like this many handed mythic entity, was my thought at the time, but I couldn’t recall it’s name then, and now can’t recall why I thought Public Opinion was like this mythical being.)… Was I occurring, and what did it mean to occur? (Look up etymology occur. After further searching, turns out there were actually three Hecatoncheires).
Called the hill “tiredless” but what I’d meant was that hill never tires or wearies of resisting you. The hill doesn’t give up one day and make itself easy to ascend like a person may give up one day and make himself neglect his ascent of it/ take the bus. (Though this misunderstands a lot I suppose. Hills fall and are worn away as a function of Nature, and people do or don’t climb hills by virtue of a sort of nature, — is among the things it misunderstands) (Alternatively: does one get up out of bed with the same power that the hill resists our ascending it? Is it gravity, viewed rightly, that makes us rise in the morning?)
Collapsing at hill top — “tired legs, the hard tiredless hill. The hill which does not feel fatigue or grow weary of resisting you,” was the phrase I’d ultimately written (phrase which itself clambered, tottered, breathed heavy, went half way). Head bent over my middle while I gasp — discovering at just this moment a new hole in my shorts. [I have since thrown away these blue bleach stained gym shorts with holes. This was after I was walking around in my neighborhood and a woman looked with surprise and censure at them, at which point I realized not that they were in no condition to be seen, which of course I knew, but that they could be seen at all, which I really hadn’t: did not realize as completely or acutely as a person should that one was in fact quite visible — that one was The Visible Man. And that one had, in consequence, to be somewhat sensitive to the plight of others experiencing this visible.]
“Shorts are to hill as hole is to gasp,” is thought, while I’m bent over at the hill top, noticing this hole. (Somehow the gasping inspired by climbing the hill is conceived of as a hole in the hill itself.) And that’s it. I was so tired and hot I thought I’d cool off by sitting on a searing hot iron bench in the sun, and after sitting their some while with flesh burning, sweat pouring down, I realized my discomfort had sharply increased and shuffled off elsewhere in search of relief.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 