Evening

If I'd read them it would have produced a different affect because a different set of historical and social circumstances would have been syndicated subconsciously, influencing my feelings in turn. These same circumstances were still there, they weren't going anywhere, although, like Albertine, their focus would become less direct. The difference with Albertine and my present state lay in the duality between manufactured and honest affection, the former being less prominent (its constituent motivator being manipulation), hence, it was easier to overcome. Events were required in order to recast the circumstances according to a new set of guidelines and the honest affection I felt functioned with the potential of an Event, as did the ways in which my business continued to progress (but both lacked the realistic qualifiers necessary to unite intellect and spirit). I was therefore stuck within a tower and could continue working while there but was constantly bombarded with various sets of ridiculous things that floated by and became apparent then disappeared again, mixed with the liberating presence of a potential association, an hypothesis, melancholically anchored by a remorseful weight, knowing that it would have been a partnership if I'd only cared about myself, while, at the same time, realizing that I didn't want that partnership to be forged through narcissism, in order to uphold the honest potential residing within. And the ashes slowly hovered above and drifted in different dimensions, some landing on leaves, others on a shoe, many disappearing or continuing to travel. I put out my cigarette to concentrate on other things, wrapped up in books, Solaris, understanding that ashes would shimmer throughout the oasis and that because of our commitment to peace we had already won.

There was a time when I could faintly here the cars passing and at night odd reflections appeared on my wall, focused then fading. The walls contained peculiar sounds and it was nice to hear the fridge start up. I took my coffee down on the dock where T_____'s lights hovered beyond three red beams. Traveling on cross-country skis was fun before returning home to read Eagleton by the fire. It wouldn't always be like this; in fact, the curiosity and wonder had faded years ago and were difficult to replace on my own. But there were tracks outside and a picture of the Priest d'Ambricourt by the television, two cans of cream of leak soup, and a diary. Intents seem to produce different outcomes than those forecast and what I had painted engendered contempt rather than production. It reminded me of patterns which resided in memory from which I should have carved a constellation as I took another sip. As the dawn lit and a troupe of snowflakes were blown from a branch I briefly saw a face before they settled into disparate patterns. They were deer tracks, rummaging through the forest in search of something tasty. I was hoping the sun's rays would heat up my coffee and continued to drink while the ice-fisherpeople walked out. The fire was dying so I returned inside to work, reflect, and rest. The coffee sat still and I thought about breakfast while I stretched and rebuilt the fire, resigned and ready, wired and worried.