11 september

And so, as is usually the case, it once again turns out to be my birthday. Funny how I almost wrote that in the past tense, even as it applies to the most immediate present. Really the more immediate present is taken up by realizing and remembering that I've forgotten that this button-- the second down on the front of my dress-- has a habit of slipping sideways and more or less shrugging off its work, shirking its simple stance to dance into distraction, even as language lifts my sense from being made to dropped and splayed all over the pavement-- what I say, what I meant-- the tracks of trains on rainy plains in Spain diverged in yellow woods misunderstood and overwrought, having bought too many tickets and being low on destinations-- this is the information stage, the retrieval craze being in a different film, with Tuttle and Buttle and Robert DeNiro, where no one's the hero and the future looks dark, though where we're meant to park our hopes is unclear-- just certain fear  and cautionary failings, inadequate railings and immodest social structures thrown up as conjunctions with reforms the conjectures that new norms will prove improvement-- the idea that movement is always better, even with a lack of direction-- and no one positioned for correcting authority-- but what? and anyway, and thankfully, that was an allusion and apologies for the confusion that spun off on that trail, flailing like an overeager mocker in the ribbon round of rhythmic gymnastics awkward but internally beautiful and oddly enough compelling