I have become like a book whose previous owner thought so much of what was written between the covers, the need to underline certain passages was the mood for the entire day. The only difference is that I am constantly writing new material. The question I have is whether the words I have written carry any new meaning, or if they are simply restated in a newer langauge.
She took a book off the shelf and gently thumbing through the pages, placed back on the shelf with a smile. Grabbing the next book in line she repeated this process, this quick examination thouroughly executed to the best of her ability. Continuing, she thumbed through every book on the first shelf, then the second then the third until all six shelves had been checked for any possible interest. When none were deemed up to par, she lets fly a sigh from her mouth and walked away.
Three weeks in a row and she is still looking for the right combination of words. At least the asiles have changed. Last week it was sociology, the week before it was gardening – this week sexuality – but each week it’s the same routine. Page through the book, return it and pick up the next one, and continue looking for the right one.
I had a dream last night. I’m standing next to several other men. All of us, some twenty of us are standing there, armsfolded in front of us and we are waiting patiently. The words please, please me ringing painfully in my ears and my mind. Suddenly I’m grabbed tossed around a bit and I’m put back in line with the others. Tomorrow is Thursday.
|August 10, 2013