The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Wednesday, October 27, 2004
I will coagulate slowly, I assure you, if I do coagulate at all.

My pace will be, pace conventional wisdom, turgid; my steps tentative and without logical plan or efficacious execution. My beginning will be abrupt, angry, bloody, fraught with longeurs, steeped in sophistry, hideous to behold and utterly compelling.

From there I will proceed.

I will track paths much taken, but I will do so in spurts and stumbles, with many coughs, numerous hesitations and multitudinous misdirections.

Often, I will proselytize with parodic platitudes, disingenuous alliterations and ridiculous redundancies for the cause of banality. At times I will do this purposefully, though often I will ascribe myself purpose only in a state of unsettled and humiliated hindsight.

Though I will seek consistency of internal purpose, my failure in this is inevitable. I concede much; indeed, I already have.

Always, I will tell myself (and those around me) that I am attempting to chart depths previously unsounded. I will - with the strength, smarts and affordably priced tools at my disposal - try to explore forgotten or undiscovered crevices and, ultimately, expose said crevices' multi-variegated insides. This (be convincing!): my raison d'etre.

What I have begun, others will not finish - because they care not to, even had they the ability. Instead, between start and apparent finish, they will dutifully interpolate finite meanings. These meanings, bite-sized and delicious, I will not know of, and would surely not be able to understand.

To myself I repeat: May I coagulate. May I coagulate. This forced extroversion of approximated faith is meant to: 1) soothe with its rhythms and 2) germinate greater understanding in those who come after.

With maturity will come much: additional ostensible purposes, trenchant taxonomies, adamantine paradigms and, unfortunately, a pervasive hoar born of thromboses and poor circulation.

I am asked: Do you wish foreknowledge of the specifications of your end?

About this, articulation is futile. Inside this febrile monomania, an army of exigencies marches forth. Things must go this way or this way or that.

I KNOW: This will happen. Then: that other thing.

Maybe. But more probably, I will simply go on; teeth spilling everywhere, far past the point at which others have lost interest. Piddling, sputtering, beginning things that don't end. Making sense at times. Ending things that were begun long before. This. Then this.

Stumble. Become embittered. Weep silently. Clutch impotently. Revile the failing frame over which I am streteched (and explicate its minutest of workings unceasingly). Scream violently at those potential hermeneuts within sounding (and those without).

Lines too long. Lines too short. Today, the lines throb. My lines are throbbing!

I release weakening parts. Slowly. Slowly. A bit - what's the word? word? - hurts today. Tomorrow? Maybe nothing.

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