crank

I had found a place where I could get things wrong, but then was interrupted constantly by old claims. Who cares anymore which direction I take, what is this artificial reality anymore? A sham despite its erudition. To mute it, then. To clench my teeth while talking on the phone with a troglodyte--the music stopped because the electricity was shut off, and I began the course of demystification. Charging my laptop at Bigby's, bringing it home to do the real work of distraction, idyllic, really: as if I could approach honesty with a euphonious strand of sentences. Who can say whether it matters that a single reader takes more than one idea seriously--the point is selfish, the world is outside and I might control it within this suffocating, uncomfortably furnished place of softness and ennui. Losing an iota of perfection is tragic: the merit is in the foolishness of believing in any sort of completion. That was necessary decades ago; else I never would have left the creek where a universe of rhythms and cymbal crashes echoed in the cyclical droning of the bugs, later identified in a lusher setting as cicadas. The valley had other species, I believe, but none of them en masse: the urban graveyard--a city of death? The death of a city?--was the site of an adult's deliberate insanity. The valley was childish reverie of the purest variety. And now? Despair set out to dry, perchance to be quenched by language? Not enough nonsense for that.