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Feb. 5th, 2006 10:19 pmI'd carelessly acquired a galley proof of "The Book of Telling". I've been carting it around for weeks; it's small enough to fit in a purse, and I'd catch snatches of it in doctors offices or on the train. But I didn't have a chance to really sink into its lyrical prose until this afternoon.
I know the book was published last year. But reading this orange-bound proof NOT FOR SALE makes it feel as if it is a secret, a glimpse into a world cast solely for me, mysterious and fleeting.
Restless movement of the mind expanding to encompass everything and nothing. A Naming, then, limned by atoms and motes trembling on translucent spider filaments woven in an incomprehensible pattern. Forward and back on that meaningless dimension of time, suspended. Waiting. Abeyance leaves room for Knowing, which action diminishes- as all possibilities receed in the face of a single act. Is it any wonder, then, that I hover, ungrounded and expectant, allowing myself to be full of all possibilities and yet... no force.
Still, longing.
What am I?
I know the book was published last year. But reading this orange-bound proof NOT FOR SALE makes it feel as if it is a secret, a glimpse into a world cast solely for me, mysterious and fleeting.
Restless movement of the mind expanding to encompass everything and nothing. A Naming, then, limned by atoms and motes trembling on translucent spider filaments woven in an incomprehensible pattern. Forward and back on that meaningless dimension of time, suspended. Waiting. Abeyance leaves room for Knowing, which action diminishes- as all possibilities receed in the face of a single act. Is it any wonder, then, that I hover, ungrounded and expectant, allowing myself to be full of all possibilities and yet... no force.
Still, longing.
What am I?
