redaction becomes organic. that is, reduction to the fine point, until no other point can be found. if there is a whole, we always wonder. that is, we—in a specific, redacted sense—do, when we can. the organic problem steals into the room when we read exactly the book we think we read. yet the change happens, somewhat heartening in an enraging way, as in: was I ever so lost as now? indeed. the tourney goes for all out drama, until the broken lance tells all. screw in the light bulb NOW, and make a peace with limitations, they are ever so grand. we slide into possibility with astonishing speed, just about fixed on the ideal that we know can’t exist. desperation manufactures a learning curve that becomes shiftless, low rent. it might be time to howl. still, the text may love us some day, to the extent that love can be worded in human terms, and if human terms bear the measure of the person in question, if questions aren’t just parliamentary purpose. the bottom line weighs heavy, a vast effort is a-foot.
or maybe the hazards are mutable, in just the way that we think we perfect the moon. looking up, a season becomes a message, straining at sense. and how does that person become that message, or that message a person? an action to weather, a whether to act on… what a muddle! which, no doubt, makes most of us comfortable. soothed with the variable logic, you see, emboldened by the muted tragedy that can be seen at the edges. the questions… it’s hard to speak of this.
edges show a frequency that can be guessed at, with pleasure, a soft reverberation at the well mouth. ready to utter, quietly, something that will assume presence. how drearily dizzy the conformities can be and how shattering the later realizations will be. the process makes many cuts and changes, to suit the biographic enterprise, but when traditions incur our wrath, every tree shakes. the division can’t be healed, not by any tool we know of. we settle for some hard thing, non-transferable. a rock, to put it kindly. and upon that rock, we think we stand.