Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Another Fifty Thousand Words.

   I am currently on a street corner behind a bakery staring at a crumpled piece of paper.  Otherwise there's not much to see, and the reason for this is because the bakery is a reflection of a place I have very poor memory of.   Nor am I able to plagiarize  the bakery's equivalence from anywhere near where I now live because some of my memories are not so much gone as they are reluctant to stand up and stare in the mirror. The result is a preoccupation with this crumpled piece of paper as it catches the breeze and potters around between the new tarmac and sand on the other side of the road  from the bakery.  And the question is, should I pick this piece of paper up to see what might be written upon it. 
 
    For a while, my answer has been a loud and determined "no!" which sometimes alarms The Artist.  I already have so many wandering strands of thinking, most of which I have forgotten all about, many of which come as a huge surprise as I make the error of re-reading past sentences in a search for the function of semi-colons. I have argued that one more unattended diversion from the invisible grist of the plot and I will have left the idea of story, or narrative, or structure, so far behind it'll no longer behave as a guiding principle and will itself have become yet one more confusing strand.  But clearly I don't really care, because I've decided that sometime today I'll reach for the piece of paper and see what might be written upon it.

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