holding the lid of one of the balsa wood boxes ben keeps on his workbenches up to the light, i noticed that there was an imperfection in the wood, a crack that went straight through the lid, top to bottom, front to back, through the length of it. i could see sunlight, little seam. not even sure why i was doing it at first, i picked at it with my fingers, with an exacto, with a sculpting gouge. like obsessive compulsion, like demonic possession, i worked at that seam until the insides of my thumb and fingers were bright red.
until others have no choice but acknowledge the reality of the wound.
there is a hole, now, in that lid--about the width of my thumb. through it, i can see the interior bottom of a fifty cent balsa wood box. what am i doing? i don't know what i am doing. do i believe if i dig myself deep enough, i'll reach the other side?
the problem with straying from the familiar is that the familiar is where i am. my perch, my place of rest, my grave. everything else is infinite black space, lacking even the cold comfort of gravity.
there are a million ways to fall through eternity. in most of them, you just fall.
until others have no choice but acknowledge the reality of the wound.
there is a hole, now, in that lid--about the width of my thumb. through it, i can see the interior bottom of a fifty cent balsa wood box. what am i doing? i don't know what i am doing. do i believe if i dig myself deep enough, i'll reach the other side?
the problem with straying from the familiar is that the familiar is where i am. my perch, my place of rest, my grave. everything else is infinite black space, lacking even the cold comfort of gravity.
there are a million ways to fall through eternity. in most of them, you just fall.