Everything as palimpsest. Consciousness, dreaming, slips of the tongue, deliberate half-truths, the stories told, re-told, forgotten, spoken again as if for the first time; the misreading of a line, of a person, because the visible context wasn’t the present context, because the submerged text isn’t the one being performed. Scriptio inferior as cypher. Dreams as a wind drawing patterns in the sand. Thoughts as a wandering tattler, making tracks along the dunes.
The song badly sung. The incomplete preparation. The careless remark. The unexpected and breathtaking disappointment, which we try to hide. The jealousy like a scalding gulp of coffee. The warmth toward a stranger, which we withheld from a friend. The sudden release of old anger, and the holding of it against all reason. The denial of doubt. The shift of affection to annoyance. The closure of horizons. The choke of envy. The failure of good sense. The refusal to accept and the unwillingness to see. Deaf, dumb, and blind. Love which consumes and does not give. The violence of our selfishness, the cut of our pride. And the deep-piled fur of our ignorance, that rangy and unpredictable beast.