wednesday (chapter 3)

he didn’t know what he was doing or why he was doing it.  he felt that if he didn’t do it or even if he did, that no one would notice, just as they had not been noticing now for several months years.  funny how those days, sorry, he meant to think funny how those minutes, no that should be funny how those seconds (a time diet! so slimming,) just collapse one into the other & if he thought how blurry time becomes when you stop (obviously you can’t stop time, although it’s been said that you can catch up to it, that is if you fall a little behind, as in “although he had fallen behind in his schoolwork, he was quick to make it up by not playing out-of-doors with the neighbor children,”) but where was this going? yes, time does blur if you’re not paying attention, he thought & if i am not paying attention & other people are not paying attention, what hope is there that there will be any clarity?  (or any attention paid to me?)

and obviously that would continue for days on end.  that line of thought would continue for days on end, not that there is much difference between days anymore, their edges (that darkness when one slips into the other, a secret lover of history lying warm against your back, depositing the past into the future) fused together, welded tight, continuing for days on end.   not that it matters if it continues, at least not for him, working in obscurity, but working & what was it a teacher once said, “working is everything,” sad in a way that.  or should that be “said in a way that implied some shame,”? not sad, but said, you’ll know what i mean, he thought to himself.  thinking of his audience, such as it is, caring for them, tending them, fertilizing them, pruning when necessary & oh! the weeds & the sucker shoots of other plants that have left their seed (just like history) for the future.

and even after he had fought back the thought of vomiting, that visceral urge to void one’s guts of the past (what else could it be, a piece of turned fruit? obviously sometimes the past sits well with us & other times, well, you know, it’s a rowdy college freshman on his first drunken toot,) but that doesn’t seem to be the case this time, at least as far as we can tell (yes, i realize we are omnipotent & should know what the future holds for our protagonist, but sometimes we must just let fate take its own sweet time — fate’s time is sweet & spicy & never ever what you imagine it will be — we know in our omnipotence that fate is a trickster, a bubble on which man rests his complacent derriere, his future; we can hope, allowing the freedom of fate to take its own time, that this man will not be so easily deceived by the comfort of fate’s luxurious deception.)

but finally, after much consideration (and quite a bit of crying, who would not cry in such circumstances?  — yes, there have been a lot of rhetorical questions, none of which have been adequately answered & you will forgive our man & us, as we pull together this last paragraph, if we digress, devolve, disintegrate, divest ourselves of, the trappings of having to answer the child’s “why?”)  they are bitter tears.  but bitter tears are not something he is used to shedding; bitter implying regret & he is not one to rue his past (active or passive.)


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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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