Slow. I\u2019m thinking about \u2018rate\u2019 as it relates to \u2018scale\u2019 in my summer sloth mind. I can\u2019t be fooled anymore, it\u2019s the work, en masque, half-hidden in\u00a0the staccato hills of here, cut by rivers and creeks, the lush outer surface of limestone cave systems\u00a0through the edges of the one last summery, tently whirl before the city studio.<\/p>\n
I got afraid to open the laptop, as sometimes happens, the same kind of afraid as going into a dark garage, or reading someone else\u2019s letter.<\/p>\n
Peter Green<\/a>\u00a0from the open-doored inside, the evening porch call and response frog chorus of seeking and finding gets louder as the night darkens. I have witnessed the entire progression of the afternoon from the table, reading, thank gods, more Marquez than since a long time. the ceaseless, elegant overflow of asides of Borgesian possibilities, dismissed like abundance, like love that’s too much trouble. One\u00a0about\u00a0a doll that Fermina received that grew!<\/em>\u00a0but unlike all the other gifts was not<\/em> sent by her constant admirer. \u00a0Marquez shuttles the reader\u00a0back and forth through this never-solved mystery that questions the writer\u2019s ability to know who dunnit. That he would write how the girl learned to smoke the backwards way with the glowing tip inside the mouth. These puzzling asides are elaborate, opaque ways around the curse my own language lives under<\/strong>.<\/p>\n Where was I going to be pushing, rolling the work, the effort, and the how of the taskliness, what am I creating, and now I remember. \u00a0into a love thing, because that\u2019s the exercise.\u00a0 Exercise, practice, what to do while waiting in breathless ecstasy for the Real Universe to please stand up. \u00a0I have it swept mostly together in near-weightless dunes in the breeze of the ceiling fan, gossamer and only one measured unit into the material, at the absolute peak of summer, not one golden or red leaf in the humid, this-kind-of-woods heavy August, buzzing with life in the generous rain<\/a>, the very eddy of endless\u00a0fever dream on this buzzing green summer porch rails that frame \u00a0trees and water, soil, rocks and reflection, as a moving geometry. \u00a0‘\u0421\u043c\u043e\u0442\u0440\u0439!’ Malevich bellows, pointing with an everlasting, ghostly cigar, ‘Look! \u0441\u043c\u043e\u0442\u0440\u0439! how I make you think it across time and space. Because it mooooves<\/em>.’<\/p>\n And so it is that Machine falls on the knife for me, again, batteries run out. I listen to the rain, and the faint crackling 30\u2019s radio shows, an hallucination of the very same impending deafness that just barely doesn\u2019t allow me to hear it, murmuring behind the not so silent night.<\/p>\n Create the world you love, not the one you fear.<\/p>\n That\u2019s the message of summer. \u00a0I lose the writing for losing the reading, like infinity mirrors\u00a0and look back for good parts slipping away from my fingertips, it\u2019s like the self, really ?\u00a0 the self, find it, fetch, locate the sufferer, isn\u2019t it only the idea of suffering?\u00a0 Only the idea of a life anyone else besides the self could even glimpse, given the roaring, ineffable difference between what is meant and what is said. Except for the professional sayers, like Shakespeare, and Marquez, who write several layers and stir, with the little weaknesses of man, into maddening enigmas of desire that end with everyone even the writer disappeared. except the reader.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Slow. I\u2019m thinking about \u2018rate\u2019 as it relates to \u2018scale\u2019 in my summer sloth mind. I can\u2019t be fooled anymore, it\u2019s the work, en masque, half-hidden in\u00a0the staccato hills of here, cut by rivers and creeks, the lush outer surface of limestone cave systems\u00a0through the edges of the one last summery, tently whirl before the … Continue reading de nada<\/span>