Red Thread(s)

Slowly, morning, and a series of parallel lines: I sit at my desk, writing, not-writing, facing north. It’s overcast with a high ceiling, even light. A sequence of airplanes comes in, north to south, each brushing the plane of the clouds -- the passage and jet exhaust forming a longitudinal crease, which, following the prevailing winds, moves in an unbroken line eastward.
The planes come in at regular intervals.
Another line, a fifth, forming a staff of music manuscript, is inscibed as the last line dissolves into the day. Writing, potential writing, un-writing,


the detached hand, “the true thing”

"You are strong by dint of slowness. Each gesture is inflected in a flowing curve. You hesitate. You choose."
-- Jean Genet, Miracle of the Rose