That is a great question.

One that requires a little back history, current insight, and whatnot...

I was so overwhelmed that the thought of walking off into oblivion sounded rather reasonable. It was then, with seven days worth of living layered on my body that I found those words. I can speculate that if I had stumbled upon them at any other time I would have completely missed the punchline. (Oh, the drama.) And, here they are again. Their missive as apparent now as it was then...only I have been there, done that.

And I am now, as I was then, required to debate myself long into the night the commitment of my endeavors. Yet, I am unable to get past the immediate burden of now. The constant demands of my time, my mind, are as good a place as any to wait it out. Work. One might assume that it is my fear of failure that has me stalled. That may have been the case then, but not this time. This time it is fear of becoming stale, stuck, tired and ridiculous…and my own overactive scrutiny as evidenced by the aforementioned fears. I can think shit to death, but right now I am not in the mood.

Perhaps, I am lazy. So what? Maybe I need a reprieve from self-deconstruction. Nope. I will just put it off for a little while and take a break. Tomorrow, next week, next month aren't going anywhere and all weigh heavy on my mind. I will give them due course, in time. But this, this moment that is happening right now…I have to deal with that first (even if it is nothing). And I know when I am ready and after proper deliberation, I will be comfortable, not resigned, with my decision.

Then, I am sure to hear the brilliant, overcooked opinions of those looking out for their interests in the guise of caring suggestion. They'll think me an idiot who blundered upon reason. Fuck ‘em if they don’t get it.

All of that back there and the way the author selected his words to sound like what they tell.

“lifts and lets fall. lifts and lets fall.”

“which spurts fragments of anguished glass.”

I see it, the crane in the scrapyard plowing through the wreckage and pulling up piece after piece without inspection. It sounds just like that, the pick and pull, the overflow spilling over the sides, the popping of the windows. That is an amazing talent; to be able to choose words in such a way as to make the reader see what they hear. Or is it, hear what they see?

And it is dark and fateful. It asks me to consider what will tear me apart. How easy it is to devour prey. Hunger, either voracious or timid, is base. And there is always a suitable meal. There it is so beautiful, enticing that we can’t resist the need, the desire, to grasp it tightly holding it steady so that we can get our fill of it. Our free hand may then break it down to its pieces parts. What is consumed will either be used for sustenance or pulled apart and re-pieced for an altogether different machine. One built from recycled guts. Delivered to a showroom near you, or shit on the heads of unsuspecting park patrons. Either way...we are what we eat.

And the contrary always appeals to me, reminds me that I can be full of shit.

Natural versus manufactured destruction...involuntary dismay and the crow and the crane and we are preening. Is it less evident because it is instinctual or because it is easier to sleep at night?


p.s. I will undoubtedly revise as it has re-established its hold of my time and my grooming.