To say what is said

It is Friday. I have been, this morning, reading. Drinking a cup of coffee.

I've re-written the previous posting. The narrative it had contained was an epistolary narrative, written for a particular person. And I have come to believe that the weight and the form of my story finds its proper balance only when prompted by the specificity of another. The meaning, as it is given to Sean or to Erin, to Jeehyun or to Thomas, expands and contracts with their presence. With each it is different while the same. But to tell it to no one, to anyone, to make of flesh a universal concept - that is to assume that meaning is a currency, independent of the hand who receives and passes it. For any who read this and who I have not already spoken to of what has happened, write to me or call me. Let us trade self for self.

Otherwise, I am, each day, afloat. I drift from place to place, from person to person, and I do not question the path this drifiting takes. People call and I answer. My mother visits. Sara and I clean her empty apartment. Erica brings to my place a movie and beer. I breathe. And I sit. I watch and listen. And I hear. There are birds and bells and passing cars. The wind pulsing through the trees. There are children laughing or cursing, walking or running. And there is, sometimes at night, the sound of rain upon the roof, the rumble of thunder, and the parting of sound that is the cut of lightning. A flash.