the developing words:
and part 10:
10
It taking so long to figure it out. What it’s “about.”
Discombobulates like sporadic noise. The fragments living are.
Four decades, seven children from three wives until he recognizes relation. Which changes things. Significantly.
It is the third wife (times charm) – out three strikes she staid on. Stays on. The difference between things.
In relation to one another. Evolving perception. The what-not, call it “aboutness.” Or in relation to…
This in relation to that is about this much this high this far. Or else nothing at all. In itself. By itself.
By himself, barely amount, insignificant cipher, plus three plus seven plus anything adding up, er, becomes.
Alone is less than one, or, not a number. It takes 1 to know 1, in other words, all-one really means no 1. Unless distinguished from something else, another 1, an other.
This he could tell. The third wife, the difference between. The aboutness. Differing shapes entirely, nearer still, at this distance.
1 cannot equal. Impossible equation. Might as well be naught, be 0 – a 1 wrapped around itself (turned-in) – revealing just a hole, something seen through. Looked straight through.
Telescope, microscope, still substance unseen, a looking at, really, looking for. Simply looking, opened at both ends. Perhaps a simple function. What an organism is, alone.
She calls out, in fact pursues him halfway across. As if to say she sees something, peering through her self-same circularity – that he is there. He begins experience, begins to get it – something else must be looking, another 1, for him to be seen, to hear of himself.
In what she tells him.
Multiple inputs introduce noise (read chaos, read being), make possibilities, provide things to figure out. With all the variables it takes a lot of time (to get what it’s about).
Damn, this was good! Really very good. I read it as poetry. Was that your intention?
A love poem, even.
Looking at itself
And
Wondering.
John, your comments are very encouraging, thank you. So far on this piece, I’m really just trying to let it arise and form as it will…not enforcing a form on it until later revisions when a larger whole has taken shape. If it reads best as poetry I’m happy to have it read that way.
Organic first draft, nice idea. Writing is like a painted canvass, isn’t it? Layers are built up, the mood shifts, colours alter, different characters demand attention while others happily settle into the background. Hey, that was almost poetic. i guess there’s hope for me yet!
Noise and possibilities indeed. Incredibly well-”said”, all of it. I admire your perseverent searching. Thank you.