Monday, December 6, 2010

Isaac Don't Write

the-Undulant acrobatic of flux

Why would I want more time to write? Writing is only the recording of rainfall, a recreation of precipitation assembled from memories. A copy of a copy. Displayed impressions of marks made in the mud, & when the basin runs dry, writing is wringing. No, at moments like those, the writing isn't worth doing. Writing isn't it.
Because even though writing stands guard over it, writing is still standing in front of it, blocking your view of it, & you have to peer around it, come at it from different angles while walking sideways away from it, to even be aware of it, it, it that is found within fissures, inside slants, between raindrops. The only way to find it is to look the other way. If you want to ask for directions, you can't just ask how to get there, you have to ask for the way to somewhere else. I'm driving around for hours without any sense of direction but it's only when I forget where I'm wanting to go that I pull up at Serendip.

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