when you come to the end. it is never easy to make that conscious decision to end. it is something that he is struggling with right now. he sees the cursor moving, leaving (shitting really) letters behind it, letters that are gathering themselves into words, forming sentences (& all those grammatical parts, groupies freely flinging themselves–panties & participles landing in a pile at the feet of our protagonist)–will they break for a paragraph, a new thought?–conclusions that are eluding him at this point.
denouement. he had loved learning that word, but this story has had intricacies, but no plot; it’s all the parts of a rope (long enough to hang yourself,) but it has not been wound together in a way that resembles a rope (when is a rope just a rope, after all. “ceci n’est pas une pipe.”) he realizes that there will be no ‘aha’ moment, no one reading this will say to themselves, “i thought as much,” or “of course she did it!” (well, partly because there was no ‘she’ in the story, of course, not that there couldn’t have been a she, & one might be of a type to switch pronouns, should one be so inclined–the results would be the same & by results we are in no way implying an end.)
he knows we anticipate ends. it satisfies a need in many of us to neatly finish something, because being ‘done’ with something is a human satisfaction, but he wonders if it is not society that has imposed finishing something on us & that it is not a hard-wired human trait–you know, to finish something. artists, he’s understood, oftentimes find it hard to finish something they may be creating, giacometti for instance, had it not been for his brother stealing into his studio & removing his sculptures would have pared away those skinny walking figures into nothing; where would we have been without those? on the other hand, there’s someone like picasso, who we can tell just from the quantity of his output, rarely agonized over a work of his not being done; he lived to produce & finish & move on.
but not all of us are picasso are we? coming to an end, for that matter coming to a beginning, is a struggle & although he may experience a flowing of & a movement forward, he is in no way unconscious of his progress, limited as it is by his mood, the time, the noise of the t.v. coming from the other room (tsunami! earthquake!), the pressures of the day ahead–
items on a list, all to be crossed off–or never to have been noted, just mental erasures of tasks completed, all of which affect the outcome of this paragraph, this walk toward the end of the story (but not really a story, his traditions different from those of yours,) but a story nonetheless & one that he feels may have had its day (today, but he reserves the right to revisit it & perhaps find in it, a beginning, an egg of an idea, fertilized by history asleep at your back.)