Sunday, August 10, 2008

Having Nothing Necessarily To Do With Writing

A powerful woman impressed with the truth. When I looked up he was in the bread aisle covered with cow splatter. One million or half of that divided two ways. Broad stairs in a public building. The way her eyes widened, like mirrors, like silver plates on display, listening. One had the impression that he was a devoted husband which late-breaking revelations tended to impair.

Vermont was a glossy future, a complicated past. Ammunition left out overnight, that was the present. The news wasn't all bad but as always quickly devolved. It was a good cup of coffee, which helped frame his thoughts about how the day would unfold, and he couldn't get it back. He wanted to write something fun, action-packed, but instead had all these fair stories. It was quiet as the light broke and breathing was difficult. It wasn't yearning or it was but in a way that tended to bind him.

He wrote as always a matter of avoidance, or elision maybe, yet valued the mode for what it also revealed in spite of itself. Spokes on a wheel always reach the center, the greasy revolving heart. After, when he woke up, he felt efficient, optimistic, and there was no clear reason for it. Dwelling on the condition of the house - i.e., decrepitude - was no antidote but still. The new bed was lighter, and felt like floating.

He tore what he believed were weeds from the garden and his son sobbed, betrayed, calling them flowers, or what might yet have proven to be, and this was one thing he didn't want to say, "go into." There was some reference in the dream to a monastery, space, a deep commitment made manifest and having nothing necessarily to do with writing.

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