It has lately occurred to me that the places where I sit to write are confluences of a sort. Or become confluences when I look at them a certain way. So here, in the back room, which doubles as an office and is supposed to be a bedroom, there is: the line of the driveway to my left, perpendicular to Harvey Road running east/west, Route 112 in the distance (running north/south) with the air strip running parallel though with more ragged edges.
There are also: the house lines visible through either window. The fence that separates our property from the Tanner's, the more or less straight up and down lines of the many maples and one dogwood and two pines. The window panes, the distinct boards comprising the walls, the lines of the desk, even the blinking cursor.
Straight lines, right angles, everywhere.
I have some new age predisposition towards circles - without any good idea of why they're better, I believe they are - yet these lines (which seem endless, run on forever) do seem to locate me - or can locate me. They bound me, act - artificially? clearly artificially (really? clearly?) - as constraints.
Lately, more and more of the spam I get is for replica watches. And how can I not be grateful? Now the point is not that "all the ladies are laughing at me" (or do I really want to please her) but that my wrist is naked to an unacceptable degree - a failure of class I cheerfully embrace. One expresses disbelief at the mere idea of spam - does anybody really actually respond to this? - and yet they must. Numbers don't lie. But they can be used in furtherance of lies.
How are numbers different from words in this way?
The sentence two sentences back (furtherance of lies et cetera) contained (had as its holy ghost) the idea of war (this war). Before moving the pigeons, we feed them in their familiar spaces. Any crisis is better handled on a full stomach.
It's not raining yet but I predict it will be.
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