fictive

If my life were a book I’d call it Mostly Open and this chapter would be Lowercase and Rising because I don’t really think it works like that we have covers but don’t turn pages no matter how germane the metaphor, we just throw in some commas for breathers and plant a few periods like we ever really knew anything in that famed for instance FIRST PLACE, knew anything more than the likely fact that periods are little more than seeds for growing.

And yet we plant and go, plant much more like stamping, stamping stomping and going around putting it stamped in bold all caps like that you know how we do like how when I told her something about my penchant for mitigating the risk of disappointment, being one and experiencing, and under it she wrote IDEALISM with double underlines and I found that find that not so oddly fitting right loosely in with my life’s book and also this twenty-two story story I’ve been lately reading in translation from the German fitting right loosely in because each of those twenty-two has at least one word or phrase in ALL CAPS and unlike her note I can’t for the life of me see a reason why or catch the thread between or the meaning behind and the whole thing strikes me as a highly-calculated happenstance like so much modern art and yet I still don’t hate it, I don’t hate it at all like I hate the linearity of stock and standard narrative.

It’s like saying life is like… I don’t know, in Mexico somewhere sometime without documentation and accompanied by a cardboard cutout someone under no clear pretenses. Just there, staying with, maybe visiting, a for-the-time-being kind of thing, no meaning for reading into. Staying in a small upstairs room of an odd-shaped, multi-level labyrinthine pueblo, a small upstairs room with a small bed and a partial ceiling and open wall looking out on the towncity and the sky is all cast over. Laying low, though, keeping near to floor and wall to avoid sight lines but then the page turns over all the everything in between because Joyce and everyone else who ever lived already did the minutiae and suddenly you’re at a party, risky around lots of people somewhere else, another structure in another part of UNFAMILIAR TOWN with walls and portals and motion around but open-air and sound, and nervous all the time about being somehow found.

Well, I guess it is, though, it is just like that, wide open, circumscribed, and loosely detailed.

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