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Tuesday, 06 June 2006
The number of the bees.
Summer now, perpetuated by stinging insects. Slow-growing greens now sprouting and taking over, growing up through the hinges of the kitchen door.
The rewriting of a thing, is it an admittance of defeat? To carve out paragraphs and feel that routine, base frustration in the words as they take you in the wrong direction, move you towards an argument you can't substantiate.
Then, picking your way back through the terms and constructs, grasping the sentences like silver thread, you find the anomaly sticking out like a sore thumb, sticking out like a bad simile. A passage of misunderstanding, upon which you rested the progression of your thoughts, its weakness collapses the rhetoric, tunnels beneath it, incongruous.
Yet, this is perhaps a good sign. As Asimov said of truly good short stories, if one removes just a single sentence then the entire piece is comprimised, such is the economy and precision of the argument used.
Today will be both tentative and bold, scaffolding the ideas I have been building for a while now. All the while though, I have journeys in my head and the hope that I will produce something with at least a semblance of impact.
Float like a a lullaby, sting like sleep.
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