You've become enamoured of the invisible,
the mystery of entanglements . . .
It's not so much the unknown,
it's the excitement
of being seduced by the moment,
the feeling of engagement, a shared journey . . .
The sloop of your dreams, drifting . . .
This performative feeling about writing . . .
that it's not set in stone . . .
that it's not closed down, not done . . . never done . . .
is good! . . .
You wake to an openness . . .
a blank page, an empty canvas . . .
And, no, it's not too late
to resume the close reading of your autofiction . . .
to experience deconstruction . . .
A bookstore materializes long enough
for you to buy your book, which isn't for sale . . .
Someone chimes in with sequencing is arbitrary . . .
Where does that fit in? . . .
Nothing wrong with being inquisitive . . .
Better than being aggressive or defensive, yes? . . .
The slippery slope of misinterpretation? . . .
of misunderstanding? . . .
The time left is now . . .
your experimental film . . . infinitely looped . . .
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| The Turin Horse (2011) |