Let's say I'm staring at a blank page, greeting card sized, and I compose some thought or feeling that I have toward someone that I love, and I ignore the Hallmark writing that can't quite be avoided to distribute sentiment, and let's say that I do compose with one try only, some words that I still do, barely, manage to convey legibly. Bam!
Let's say I'm staring at a blank screen, and start my fingers flying over keyboard. Yeah . . . .
One time I did use dictaphone and secretary, and it rather more approached the page, its delimitations in my head, and my secretary could read my awful hand better than I could anyhow, and so letters were produced with meaning, even if among others which missed their mark.
Let's say I touch myself on images perfectly composed to make me do what they call come and what is perhaps more problematical for women against the mythology, maybe, still, I don't know. This bears almost no relation to those constrained events I still do remember together with some actual human, and while there was almost never coming together, helas against the cultural imperatives, there was something more toward love and it did sure involve taste and smell and touch and not so very much urgency though I was younger and nothing does endure.
Let's say that I would if I could and actually can but don't want to support it, have someplace my own garage and in it put that motorcycle which I wish I did still have, and now a little sailboat and could maintain someplace to where I could return, over and again, I suppose I must admit that I am over that as well. I could assemble the pieces easily and cheaply enough, but it would be to look backward on my life to where there was something more like joy in innocence now gone forever gone, and I will not purchase a highly subsidized to the point of free ski pass this winter because the social and physical pain threshold has been crossed and I am mostly bored alone on slopes as white as blank pages.Speed no longer thrills, no longer matters.
I will return to the road then, in a crouch, all fours, the boundless void of water closed also forever to me, tax on kit for living a small fraction of apartment living in the endlessly burgeoning mini-storage industry, so that I may have something to reassemble should I want or am I able to return someday to join the living and the quick. It will all be trivial to dispose then beyond me if or when I don't make it back.
I have left ghosts of myself strewn across the planet and they have scant spirit to them, demolished by digital overwhelm. I understand I can stow my important papers securely in the cloud thanks to the largesse of a finance giant which might actually survive the downing of the internet, though why would it even matter then?
Species collapse accelerates apace, what me worry? Oil now weaponized against every other aspirant to world domination in the economy of something that is not quite love, and we are treating our own Native Americans now as trespassers to block a pipeline to cross their once and only sacred land? No reporters allowed, this is surely not a nation anymore that I was once a part of.
Was there ever a time? Has it always been a blood sport? Yes, I do suppose it always has been. My enthusiasms move away from home now, and I shall wander evermore anon. Watch me on Facebook, right?