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a trip could be planned, a trip away, since the days are getting cooler and the trees are starting to change, only just starting. you have all these thoughts about getting away, how everyone else is getting away and even the birds are migrating. you see the geese, now, and I think those are starlings that are starting to fan out in huge flocks over fields, on and off phone lines, curving into boomerangs and brushing the mapletops, weaving, waving.
I was in college when I saw my first flock of cedar waxwings, the same semester Jonathan wrote a sonnet mentioning waxwings, the same semester I was editing Exordium and had a staff of six. these are things no one here knows, and I could fill a hot air balloon with everything and let it go and no one would know. because of this & things similar, I live in houses of words because I hope that things that are impossible to say can somehow be said. you have dreams of the wind blowing through your hair or the sun setting over something but my dreamworld is a place where the signifier leads inexorably to the signified and you understand what I mean to say. in all the webs between, the lines being restrung twice a week, I wish silently that a method can be found to tell you what I’m saying, or to be told what you are saying, the pith of it, the center of all the trebly-shifting variables, the place the real arrow is pointing.
the clouds; hills covered with trees; color gradients; the rise and fall of the shuddering cicada song like someone breathing, in sleep: not even nature is direct. it’s as if words don’t ease or further complicate things. it’s as if the spikes, the racemes, the panicles are not signifying any more or less particularly than my five hundred words. if the thing to be understood was a sign, less than a division of a word but covering in its single skin the whole of what you were trying to say, and if things were organized here such that leaves were never bipinnate and you were never torn between two opposing metaphors, would anything be better?
