being part of

getting ready/bracing myself for/ trying not to brace for big shift that I want very much that I fantasize will be about reclaiming old dear innocent parts of myself that do not want to be part of a current cultural conversation at all except by accident, the person who feels fine about not really being that interested except occasionally in the lives of writers and definitely not in relation to what they wrote that likes a book out of context that knows that readings are always incomplete and that’s not a problem it’s a fact that doesn’t have any desire to exhaust anything b/c that is a form of death, of meanness of winning. what else. ┬áso reading books in a way that helps me write that helps me think the next thing. so writing in the totally imaginary space of these collected reading and lived experiences, writing in relation to those things as they inhabit my head but articulating with such determination and clarity that a stick-person could walk up to my thing as to a rock on the moon and see that it’s a rock on the moon?

 

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