Going Dutch again

 

 

 

So tomorrow came and went. Didn’t make a dent in the urgency of conturgency. Compulsion to play, nay: to trickle and spurt. No-one needs to get hurt. It can all be achieved amicably.

 Founding myths. Stories that structure our experience. As I mentioned in Toast to Jujube: 

  "There was no little Hans the Dutch boy. The Americans made it up".

 We were told that Hans saw water trickling through a dyke and stuck his finger in and saved his entire village from flooding. Because the small stream would have grown to a bigger stream and burst the dyke. I am using that idea by writing a tiny amount with the intention of using the power of the stream to burst the dyke.  Write a sentence or two every day and soon the words will swell to pragraphs and even pages.  We are entangled in narratives. We are caught up in and made up of meanings which have no direct relationship with reality. We must write our own stories in order to exist.

 

 

 

Les sens de l’étang

 No more maybes. Tomorrow we shall begin. To write the wrongs and pen the sheep, for a lamb’s a lamb for a’ that.

 Why tomorrow? Is there something new that can be borrowed that isn’t a present today?

No-one will say.

 The engine ticking over thinks it is idling, biding its time for the great take-off, but it may just putter out. Tout dépend de l’essence.

 

Predication

Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to do what I don’t do today

Maybe the story will right itself and I’ll be okay

The world around me will suddenly astound me

Metamorphose into something grandiose.

The easter egg will split open and out pop ibuprofen or some such medicament to solve our predicament.