A Life In Ellipsis

Lately, the twenty sentences have become opaque. Partly because I'm writing them quickly because other projects take up my time but partly because I like opacity. Because I remain interested in fragments and their relationship - or lack thereof - to the whole, any whole. And also how one sentence predicts/implies/foreshadows the next and is - somehow - predicated on the one that precedes it, but in unexpected ways. Very much not like the sentences in this paragraph.

But at the same time, while professing a desire to delight or surprise, I must be aware of a personal inclination to avoid speaking in a specific way - of saying the thing I want to say. I prefer elision, redaction. A life in ellipsis. "Prefer" is the wrong verb, as it feels more like a defensive maneuver one has learned carefully, over a long time, and trained for.

But still, as always, it's good in an odd way, to see what writing carries on with its own energy and which I abandon or get bored by. The twenty sentences, begun with vague reference to Harry Mathews, have morphed, skitted over boredom, stated objectives, but continue. I turn to them in the morning no different than my coffee. As necessary but why. What is being said in, through, by them that makes them essential. To me. For what other reader(s) is (are) there?

Struggling as always with money, writing projects that pay too little, scheduling, ambition, fate, is there a God and if so etc. A life in confluence, in conflagration. Not unsatisfying at all, but sometimes . . . . What do I mean by that. Where, here, in the twentieth sentence, I cannot - will not - say.