Writing To Write

 She began by saying someone said. Someone as a point of departure. Someone who would be a particular, as we might all be, one day. It might not be today or some future day if they occur but maybe long ago. Or, could it be a sudden trick, the way narrative and so forth. Narrative as a sentiment of time and of time spent, which is passing. And so someone said, in the past. The prelude began for a certain thing in a certain time. Namely. Someone who said saying. “I did not drag my father beyond this tree”. It was that sudden, and other things moved too. These certain men and women. These made Americans, alive or nought. We can be told who is the particular. Say American, as a species. As dollars and dolours, as standards and stories. And the father never dragged his father beyond the specified tree. Imagine Gertrude telling you this, and you never dragged a father anywhere and surely not past the indicated tree. And you may be American as some people are. And some people are and others are not. All in a way that Gertrude spells out. This isn’t Swiss cheese, as if anything could be or even couldn’t. This is something Gertrude began to begin. But others too. Even the ones that aren’t always ones, in the everyday that is any. And especially them, in the moments that ones are there, or here. Even them, up to and including.