Thu, 19 May 2005

no one enters
She said there was an unused computer in the back room, and that maybe it would be fun if people went in and wrote a little, if they felt like it, and later we’d try to figure out who typed in each phrase, each story. Through the night, some unknown number of guests went to the keyboard and added their words, sometimes attempting to lift and gather the thread of what had come before, sometimes pouring out things which seemingly needed to be said, sometimes blankly wandering, trying to find some point of recapitulation. I read it later, printed it out, spent afternoon hours in empty rooms trying to pull apart who said what, which words she said, which words may have been meant for me. I was selfish that way. There is only meaning insofar as the words set forth a potential, a promise of some long-postponed connection. I took my pills and traced the words, and came up with nothing. That party was the last of us, the morning finding us aware of how little we had left between us, and our attempts to hide from the sun with blankets over the windows and chemicals to kill the king of sleep may have kept them safe, gathered in the kitchen making grilled cheese sandwiches, but I was happy to have the light hit me on the front porch as I closed the door behind me, happy to be finished, happy to have nothing left to say.
(12:25.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #