2004-02-13 - 4:24 a.m.

Three Disconnected Paragraphs

If I were without words, I'd only really want them to paint in the details between the pictures in my mind. I wish I could capture the arches and sweeps that I can't show verbally, and if I could do that I'd only ache to sculpt, then to breathe life into my creation.

Perhaps in thinking and imagination we come closest to pure apprehension of reality, though we tend to dismiss imagination as, literally, fanciful. Writing, several steps or three removed from purest imaginings, is where we begin to unravel reality, choosing carefully our vehicle and form, examining and weighing inclusion/exclusion. Writing -- and the arts -- are not the need to express life, but to momentarily destroy parts of it to bring others to the fore. Call it emphasis if you like, but amnesia's not merely an emphasis of what remains, however temporary the state of loss.

The hands that pulse with the loss of quiet, guided touches are the ones most likely moved to be seeking that pulse in a fragile throat. The more specific the image the more deadly the creator.

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