While Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure is downloading I might as well try to write a little. The first thing is, I have no idea what I’m doing with M. A book about a letter? A book that is not about a letter? I have no idea, and if there’s something in the crevices of the letter itself, since it is a bent one, that will help me, I will pull the letter apart looking for it, I hope it isn’t just a cookie, even if it has M&Ms.
The second thing is, what is the second thing? Three small sacks I sewed and stuffed with rice last year when I thought I was losing my mind, so I would have something to juggle to distract me from the clicking sound my eye was making?
All of these commas. If only there were another way. To keep all of the parts separate. Like cell walls. Is a comma a membrane? It is not a barrier. The sentence’s blood can move beyond it. Out into the space before the sentence, filling the space with its own fluids. A little like sucking on your own papercut, not somebody else’s.
An apostrophe all by itself is spooky. Like a curl in a dead person’s hair when just a moment ago the dead person’s hair wasn’t curled, you looked away and when you looked back: the curl. In the dead person’s hair. Because of the humidity.
Even a dead person’s hair is a host of change.
I am running out of phone minutes, I have to go pay Cricket. Which reminds me, for a while we were getting crickets in our house, like one per night, they seemed to feel they could just come right in through the cracks and hop around on the floor like senators in a debate, I meant to tell you all about them through a series of diagrams, but then the crickets stopped appearing and I forgot.