There’s something satisfying about disintegration. That which is written with no intention to leave a permanent trace seems more useful and interesting that that which is made in order to tell the future something.
I like used things partly because they don’t unnerve me like a store of identical extruded things.
Variability assures me that things will get worse. It will never always be this. The this is a treasure that disappears. Treasure is only treasure because of impermanence. If gold were more indestructible than ductile, its value would be less.
Old Pond, haiku comics.
Been reading. As am apt to.
Eye Lake by Tristan Hughes. We started piecemeal, a chapter here and there but chapter 4 to the end was one sitting of 6 hours aloud. It drums forward. 3 timelines of Eli’s life and family history run parallel. The language and point of view are pleasures. All kinds of landscape memories rose, people I’d forgotten. The novel works more like poetry for multiple depths of meaning than most poetry. The reader is left to fill in gaps and react as the narrator is subdued, reporting, keeping one foot after the last.
We’re currently reading aloud Wore Down Trust by Micheal Blouin. It is billed as poetry but it bends genres, fact and fiction of Alden Nolan and Johnny Cash. It is fragmentary and switches among multiple timelines as well and yet holds a forward momentum better than most novels. p. 84
the only official language
and no one really understood it
though they pretended to.
Quote: “Anybody can win unless there happens to be a second entry.” ~ George Ade