When language was young, bright lights were rare and meaningless. Trees could not doctor a frog or patiently remove time. Night was borne but Language barely stayed. Exclamation became a grace note in long guttural longings of sonic impulse. Language only felt right. Pictures were brief moments of motion, like a rabbit but flatter. Pictures wanted certainty in a blaze. Certainty was just a rock or stick, sometimes a cloud, like heaven in your mind. How could language be anything but a slicing noise in the candid empty and only implied. What is implication but the rushing sound of grass. Language doesn’t stick out. It is landscape. A breeze, the effort of leaves, muttering doves, underground surgings, oh language began some time, ago. Now what can you say after language? A steady rock in your mind remains.
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...
Comments