Friday, January 15, 2010

(so....) Little recks the labourer

How little has my silence told you, my missing friends? Now passed the long years lack of voice seems brief, as brief as any other spoken pause is posted on a page of garbled time smeared out in space be it seconds, seasons, or five years t0 watch The River rise and fall. But this long brevity is almost done - soon I'll leave my house and Austin to go back 'home' wherever whatever that place may be! The same brief span that once marked the flicker of a moment between a thought and a second one not quite in might a correction to replace and stand alone now measures in width and hue identical the span of years in which I wandered like some Socrates by The River and found, again, that the place I was, as always finally my home - empty for me and alone. The inconsistent structure in which words written and read show relative time is for me, writing relativist aware of the relative now (for me still a then) of a reader, is just an intellectual curiosity that I can use to distract myself from myself. So far that brief span is still only simply possible but in it I can place a mythic kingdom by a river and still have room to place in it the war that tainted and made it wither with indiminished volume for me to fit in it my soul.
But that black inch that is the header of this, unintended ramble, holds in it a microcosm of the world where the hippies came