Your words, I admit, were kind. Nevertheless, I fear that you did not give sufficient thought to what you were saying. And even less to what I was saying. You should always listen carefully, Max, to what women say while they're being fucked. If they don't speak, fine, there's nothing to listen to, and you'll probably have nothing to think about, but if they do, even if it's only a murmur, listen to their words and think about them, think about their meanings, think about what they express and leave unexpressed, try to understand what it is they really signify.
--from Murdering Whores by Roberto Bolaño
It's roughly 10:25 am, and I am laying on a bed holding a mug of coffee steady in between my knees (at 90 degree angles, on their sides) as I type. Fiction has been good to me lately. Reality, perhaps more so.
There are a number of plots and plans that I have simmering on the proverbial stove, and the mixture and direction of their scents seem to be in profound agreement as of late. Step by step and with an eye on everything at once can both sharpen the senses as well as leave you inspired to bring on more to the mix. Patience and a steady eye, however, seems to be the winning combination.
These days I am excited by the balance of the step by step plan: The satisfaction involved in putting a solid, inked line through a task written down on a To Do list. Watching the ink spread into the paper makes me more attentive to the air that hovers just above and upon the nape of my neck. The patterned click clop click of heels making their unquestioned way across academic tile (we all know that corporate has long since switched out to be a disappointing industrial grade carpet).
I will see you soon, and with measured steps.
k.
(image: Richard Serra, To Lift, 1967.)
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