His near stammering. With disconcerting promptness one word hid behind another. -- Maurice Blanchot, Le Dernier Homme Contact me: red3ad (at) yahoo (dot) com


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

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