My over-usage of commas, my immediate awareness of the awkwardness of internet blogging and the fact that I, despite self-knowledge of it, can never help but over-preface and avoid the point, often obscuring the idea that I even have a point—we can look forward to all of these things in more substantial clots of words to come. The murky definition of “point” here overwhelms me, bores others and, all in all, muddles this paragraph further.
There is a Frenchman whose jaw is wired shut in my kitchen. I just used my cell phone to return a text message that asked me to make a phone call. NPR is playing classical music through the stereo I grew up with, one that originally lived in my mother’s living room in
This is the beginning of something that in the future, meaning every single solitary time from now, will have a specific aim. Right now, the strings are untuned, the soil over-turned, the lens unfocused, waiting. The pen taps, taps, taps. But the page is no longer blank. A blink. And then.
Sequins dazzle light. I offer no explanations besides these. Little windows, little mirrors, but enlarged, wonderfully huge. Gigantic, even.