The map-reader’s search for co-ordinates

I looked under the car­pet, but all I found was fluff and floor­boards. I looked in the bot­tom of my glass, but all I found was a watery reflec­tion. I looked in the envel­ope, but all I found were let­ters that fell out into per­fectly dis­join­ted words. I looked up at the altar, but all I found was a deity sus­pen­ded on wires. I looked into tech­no­logy, but all I found were zer­oes and ones and dots and dashes. I looked into art, but all I found were strokes. I looked inside books, but all I found were folds. I looked into poetry, but all I found was a b a b c d c d e f e f g g. I looked into news­pa­pers, but all I found were events incon­ceiv­able, events inconsequential.

I rifled through your pock­ets, but all I found were keys. I picked up your tele­phone, but all I found were keys. I listened to your music, but all I found were keys. I scanned your map, but all I found was a single key. This does mean, how­ever, that I can now under­stand your strange sym­bols, your gradi­ents and grids, your con­cent­ric lines and haphaz­ard thoughts that lead nowhere except back to the streets of this noble city.

I looked into me, but all I found was air. I looked into you, but all I found was still (more) air. It’s not true that empty ves­sels make the most noise.

I wish to inform you that I am breath­ing. I wish to inform you that tomor­row I shall remain breath­ing. I wish to inform you. I wish to inform. I wish to. I wish. Don’t stop breathing.

Comments: 15

    it’s not non­sensical, more like pret­tily eloquent.

    kate | 04.21.07, 03:19

    I’m glad you’re breathing.

    isabelle | 04.21.07, 03:41

    Lovely rhythm to your post.

    hellojed | 04.21.07, 09:44

    I never know what to say about your posts
    But I always want to say some­thing, to acknow­ledge that I read them and appre­ci­ate them, even if I don’t often under­stand them

    anxious | 04.21.07, 12:30

    Look­ing for mean­ing.
    Try­ing to under­stand.
    Exist­ing.
    Connecting.

    seahorse | 04.21.07, 15:11

    quite beau­ti­ful words.

    andre | 04.21.07, 15:36

    Thank you for such lovely com­ments, all. I really and truly appre­ci­ate them.

    An Unreliable Witness | 04.21.07, 17:33

    Will do. You too.

    clarissa | 04.21.07, 20:05

    Have you thought about writ­ing poems instead?
    I always have this urge to read your posts as if they were poems, so maybe you’d con­sider this. Just for me. Go on.

    Timbo | 04.21.07, 22:19

    Clarissa — Yes, still am, last time I checked.

    Timbo — Inter­est­ing com­ment, thanks. I have been known to write poetry — quite dire poetry, to be hon­est — and some of it even turned up in obscure corners of the net many years ago. But noth­ing since. Oddly, for me, I tend to some­how lose the rhythm of words and resort to very obvi­ous verse rhythms when writ­ing poetry. When I’m writ­ing prose — well, I’ll let you into a little secret: I think about how the words sound, but any sense of rhythm in a piece just kind of … happens.

    An Unreliable Witness | 04.22.07, 01:19

    prose could just be free­formed, unpunc­tu­ated poetry…but don’t stop the need to inhale…

    kate | 04.22.07, 01:46

    a short list of the effects your writ­ing has on me:

    (i) leaves me breath­less
    (ii) leaves tears in my eyes
    (iii) leaves me won­der­ing what occurs in your mind
    (iv) leaves me speech­less in won­der at your words

    mizyake | 04.22.07, 12:50

    I’ve been read­ing poetry on these pages since An Unre­li­able Wit­ness first began.

    andre | 04.22.07, 19:26

    Kate & Andre — Sssh. I am prone to blush­ing in hot weather.

    Mizyake — You, also, are far too kind.

    An Unreliable Witness | 04.22.07, 19:39

    I’m lost but it’s ok. I quite like it —>here.

    Angelalala | 04.23.07, 10:28

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