There was a time when the logs in the fire were just children. You could depend on information, it was made on a hill and rolled to your door. We all insisted on the practical wave of knowing right, right to the beginning, right to the door. Patents were tendered, but children cannot step away. They have to stutter and fit that. The knowledge of children crystallizes in patient undertakings, like anti-Semitic watches or telephones with cancer. All time resonates in the way language grows from barking sequences overheard late at night. Not wolves or coyotes but the angling mentor who seizes opportunity as a nation. Not making sense is the new tomorrow but then the sea rises over the wall and litters the streets with plain old matter. To test limits is to read injunctions. Thank the doleful engine for such persistence.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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