j.a. van wagner :: wordobject :: imagetime

Not two, not a week, not a month, not two, but the telic moaning: I can’t, how, it’s the end, forget it.
What it is, is that you will have been doing being for yes, that many years as you have had, from your beginning, up to now, allowing for a little forward projection, with its underlying uncertainty, but that the next step could be the chasm, more; that between steps lies an obscurer black, between strikes of the metronome, for example, or if a tolling bell, then in the lull the clapper swings free, as if in unstruck time lies time’s true nature, an open swing of unpredestinated air, assload of unmarked passings wherein one grew, budded, blossomed, withered, fell, of which every formulation is a mockery; and this ceremony of names only hollows further the stations of the way, where it was used to be said, the stations of the cross, with a verse for each to toll out its suffering, constituted of moans and cries, again: I can’t, why; then why not; then how; as the wormy tide of dirt rises unstoppably to obscure the peculiar grammar of this church, stifle its clanging.