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  • So here is the precise angle, the point of convergence, the line of thought, the soundless triangle to hook up to, which is the necessary start, since without it I’d be writers-blocked just as yesterday and the day before and no end -- a prediction, as good as any others, of the near and distant future. As the Universe started itself from scratch, having waited for too long – having started itself with a big bang born from a microscopic imbalance of the timeless zone before, so does a serious expose start with the most innocuous speck of matter: a point in space, a fluctuation of time, a fly-speck on the wall, a weightless pencil of light in the air, a drop of coffee on a freshly washed shirt, an overheard comment behind someone’s back, an unintended brief cough on the sidewalk. But the point is, I started when I chose to start; what I have said is said, witnessed by the earth if not by a single person, and now there is no way back, and I’m not in the least unhappy about it since now my remark has momentum, an infinitesimal vector with direction, a way to continue at least for the moment even if everything else fails, which it eventually must.

    Except today, as I stare at what I’ve written the day before, I have no recollection of what I was aiming for, having been overtaken by fatigue at the precise moment when the text called for a concrete manifestation of matters alluded to in so many words and postings before. Anecdotal evidence is better than no evidence at all. I do owe up to my own handwriting, and even recognize the phrases, and the way the argument has been building up for the kill, but, having said this, the meaning and intent of the paragraph , or rather its content, remains – rightly or wrongly -- totally opaque.

    If I say there is no way back, as I said before, then I refer to the impossibility of erasure. Unwriting a text or any of its sentences cannot be done since it is inscribed in memory, if not in the reader, then at least in the writer. (And it is also true that the writer, when starting at the same point where he started before, will likely reproduce – at least in spirit -- the text he has now decided to disavow, as it shines through every willful act of oblivion.) So the act of rubbing it out, in its physical manifestation on the page, or in the distribution of electrons in the computer’s memory, or in the rewiring of neural connections, for that matter, will not take us back one iota into the past, but rather add a sorry chapter to the chapters in history of planned but failed misapprehensions and misdeeds.

    It is here, on the blank page, the face without eyes, staring at me as I begin to fill its top margin, like growing hair on a bald head by application of snake-oil, at $69.99 a bottle for suckers calling the 1-800 number; my writing is going to disappear just as the snake-oil never had an instance of success; only sanctimonious testimonials: I was there; I had my head anointed, and see! See, if you still can!!
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