Deliberate.
Posted by Scatterfingers , Saturday, June 04, 2005 6/04/2005 04:50:00 PM
I should have been more careful, more deliberate. Less enticed to read when you weren't looking and catch a glimpse of the things kept in your pockets. I became convinced then that you don't know what you do, not really. Talking as if the words mean merely what they say, when of course they run like subteranean rivers, back and forth, though hard to tell where they'll delta. I should have covered my tracks with sage and heartbrush. I think I coloured a bit when you told me what had happened: mostly because it was me. But then, you always knew that.
I hate the fact that people aren't in my mind to query and delve into at my whim, that I have to drag out the facts and make all the connections myself. Obtuse that way, but so am I, sometimes. You might have to write the entire novel to find out what I keep on the last few pages. Can't say it'll be worth it, but maybe you'll get somewhere yourself trying to map out where I've gone. But then, I'd like to skip a few pages here and figure out a few things. Like, for instance, do these lines leep intersecting, crossing and then uncrossing? Do things fall farther out of orbit the more things change? Do we give in to entropy? Are we, after all, trying too hard?
Someone asked you a question. How did the answer go, I wonder? But then, I wondered in my head, mostly - some things aren't polite to ask - and my hypothesis is most likely correct. I always knew those sorts of things, the wording, the rhythm, the half-truths.
