If what I have to say is of so little import that I have to say it repeatedly, like an ad blaring from a newspaper or television, then it is worthless enough to write down so that it may, possibly, be read more than once. Is it fear of being misunderstood that drives me to scratch my cramped hand across the page with such diligence? Or an obsessive desire to control the message, if any, or to exert my will upon the text? And what about all those metaphors embedded in the words: scratch, cramped, desire, control, exert, embedded? The message, if any, takes on a meaning of its own like the darkness a thief cloaks himself in after slipping out the door. Yet now as I paused to read back what I wrote – – I stumbled on the stairs, thinking: That’s it, that’s the point! – – So I missed a step, (both literally and metaphorically) as it were, and wound up on another tangent without hope of reconnection to my original,yet banal, thought.
(August 2001-April 2003)