broken threads of narrative

From the window, blue skies and bare trees, and white daffodils bobbing in a light breeze. They look like they are talking, a group of close friends sharing jokes; they look like a conference. Further, the trees left to grow from the muddy banks of the river, looking as nature intended, and further still fields for the playing of football. A goalpost stands ready and prepared, always set for its purpose, as nature intended.

There are many subject matters clumsily floating around my head, like bread in milk, with no apparent outlet for their communication. As with lottery machines, those hideous robots with unfeeling clunking heads, the ideas bundle and crash and bounce around until one small outlet opens for the selection of one and currently there seems no such opening. Only expectation, only the clutching of a ticket close to the chest.

Currently, then, there are ideas yet to be set down (or planted, or installed, or dismissed). From each is drawn individual contexts pulled away as doll’s hair knotted around the finger in abscent-minded boredom. It does annoy that my diaries sit without their own freedoms, the narrative which ran so free from January 2000 abrubtly stopped (aborted? curtailed?) in August 2008. Context, of course, but all the same…Currently, then, the birdsong and the humming and the tapping of fingers against the desk while on the phone. Currently, then, the frustration behind the pushing of so many words through so few holes.

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