Writing is the sport
of typing, or of scribble, if you choose. You sit in plastic music
and compare your thoughts to nothing. Nothing is so vague! You can
gain the upper hand by telling Kerouac to type faster. Capote was
right, despite an obvious pall. Writing is the measure of the
typewriter, or the extent of graphite in a pencil, ink in a pen. It
must be time to hear the words someday.
What playground can
you fall from, hearing that Martians have proverbs and you can
listen? They write with what is left, which, strangely, is just like
you and me. Henry James told the amanuensis that the brigantine was
empty, and still something was left behind. It seemed like everything
to Henry, nothing to the amanuensis. Something and everything must
not be the same. Nothing every is.
Wallace Stevens
pulled a wallet from his ear; Emily Dickinson spoke of foundries.
Like several trees, they smile.
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