I read Hesiod and put some notes in the margin. Tapping my pen on the page like playing taps as I thought of those notes (like a doctor trying to resuscitate a patient with CPR). In a way, it was as if we were reading together, or the leaf between R and W was penetrated.
Of course, this may invite bad weather – a thousand pests of some sort
(who are like houseguests that take a mansion with many rooms and host their own party. Of which, the party is always that of the guests).
Even I can see that this book doesn’t care. How it gets up, shakes about, dusts itself off. I’m hardly the first (and hardly the last): it’s been through this rodeo before with all of the guests it has invited like myself.
Optimism for those Days and Nights, which is a perfect couple, but it doesn’t make much sense to have one without the other. The Other, who [incoming Lacan quote] “is the one who allows us to see the things that we say.” However, in this example, it may be what we see.
But I believe books have jackets because they care about their appearance.
I believe books have an avid social life.
It’s not interesting to say that a book is a ‘fatherless child.’ It’s interesting to think about what those who say that want to do with children…sometimes, it’s not only limited to dressing them up, I presume.
I didn’t read today.
But I was snug in this jacket, not exactly wearing it despite the words’ foppish nature. No, I was cradled by the metaphorical in a way only the metaphorical can.
I wonder if I missed the point – which is to assume there was a point (itself in the singular). However, singular is never singular, adj: odd; unique; original... if we all take the same point. And so I wonder if my missed point is the only point that I can make, aside from these notes in the margin. They’re not from a shortcoming, but from a long-coming.
For it’s those points during which I read together with the world, in some cosmic armchair.