Tuesday, February 24, 2009

We Filled Seven Boxes with Food

Spare the distance of condition. We are full of resumption as we press the text into fields of historic presentation. Words are not random but constant. I was ready, you see, to step from the mountain. Yeti, as creature, was already gone. Others as well had left. Excellent English remained as companion, and we let ourselves move. Pressure is constant. Villages here and there, the moan of hurdy gurdies, oddly sudden, and a brisk ukulele strummed intensely for moments, and we see landscape. We walk on. On went Long Knives, a spot in history, as time resolves in actions, which are tolled. This strange society explained action as war. War seeped from caves and holes, over places where people stop. People stop suddenly. We hear music lose and fly. This is a strange escapade that we can only inhale with the hard breath we need. The world is hardened for us. Excellent English and I feel ready. Everest is such a temporary mass, a few more chunks of agelessness will lose it completely. But we will remain. We will continue walking toward. Our words will be villages, and villages are nice. We will stop in a place where smoke gathers, and liquid light after sun fails us again. We’ll let a story surface from our personal point. We will read those words in a day or never. We will exclude the linear and extend into the broad and varying. Isn’t that the sense we need? The question comes earnestly, since narrative does not fit simply. George Rogers Clark did indeed fulfill a promise. Soonestly he died, as Lewis died, as William settled at the doorway to the West, perfectly for the time. Reader comes upon evidence and risk and determines sequence. Reader relies on pieces and stretching toward a blind capacious ownership. Practice endeavours to instruct. We find a place (Excellent English and I), and sit for the jig of time. Sitting is fire. Fire is worth. Worth is a very finished word…

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