29 october

Too many asides for a direct conversation and I’m not sure what I’d say anyway, let’s set this elsewhere and proceed. It has come to my attention we have no dimensions deeper than reality to subsist upon and we are pawns, not prawns, and we see food to our mouths as the driving rain turns south—for how could it fall north, which is up, as we cup our hands and expand the swimming into the air? It’s fair to wonder where this is going, and if I had a script, I’d give you half, a raft to lie on, fairly and squarely, a boat to sink through, remote like the channels of English muffins crooked in their crannies and accented like those nannies who solve everything without commercial breaks. Have we made mistakes and when will we know? You and I are always cast in separate scenes, it seems to me, and that’s as may be, as may flower like pilgrims on opposite shores, laying store by our own cases and replacing the mistaken crops with hops and barrels and Christmas carols we’ve forgotten the words to. We’re humming through the figuring-out and plenty of doubts remain to be seen as hurricane means and pumpkin tides leave us peering from inside and out into the elsewhere figuring out what’s about there, weaving through the dark and scrambling on the roof.