4. I obviously don't trust my laptop that just conked out on me a few minutes ago, or the internet connection, or the possibility that I'm going to press a wrong button and my words are going to be lost (like a long letter I had written for maita that's bound to be at the heart of whatever purgatory lost words end up in.) Within a book's another book where no endings end, no thrown balls land on no dark rivers, no pages turn unturned, no last page lasts. Always beginning-- the old book within the lost book one forgot to read because the world was too busy, and the reader's eye too tired to hold onto whatever last thing it was that made sense.
5. I feel like I'm getting more pretentious by the minute. I think I'm going to stop here. No---
6. Last book I bought was a textbook called Picturing Texts. Uses images and photographs to teach composition. Extends the definition of "text". Recognizes the long and lazy dance of words and photographs. How did people imagine their lives before photography? Memory has always seemed to be a series of pictures. Almost unimaginable to think of the world before the photo, the pose, the smile for the camera. Did people smile differently? Look away differently? What did it mean to "look away"?
7. I want to trip respect. Rip the teeth out of manners. Embarrass whatever is deemed proper by the day, on that day. Surprise the sentences we send to each other by feigning an end.