I am always grappling with the precise arrangement of my words, the words I’m laying out like paint over a blanked out surface – should I move this preposition over there or keep it here? should I shift this clause or phrase to the middle of the sentence or should I keep it at the start in its immediacy and force – with questions of repetition as not only a semantic but a sonic virtue, questions of line and breakage, accidental fragmentation and opposing movements wanting to enfold – fold in – disparate places times and people, thoughts and oppositions merged into a polyphonic fabric weaving in and of itself around a series of events, removing linearity in movement, performing time as a species of space, threatening sinkage into something that cannot be placed but only listened to though hardly sensed, something I’m unpacking with every word as it repacks itself with all the others into something I am almost – often wishing – I’m aware of, somehow glimpsing, even if only partially, even if only accidentally, even if only – what if I’m imagining all this? – close-up or abstractly, something removing and replacing and unhinged I know I’ll never reach or access in some other way, something that may be something, or something, or something, or something, or something altogether different from that something or that something or that something or that something, something else, beyond all logic and all sense, beyond the recognitions of my body or my conscious or subconscious inklings, intuitions, or my hopes, a blankness that is always there.
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