This one is at the end of the tether. Tugging at the thread, spinning. She is a spider from outer space singing the galaxies into and out of being. Stars are ensnared, this net made of glistening silk. Beyond us, a planet plumbs the dark, cold ocean of the universe. It is lost and little convinced by the gravity of a sun so distant that it looks like a star A memory failing. An extinguished candle just pucker and blow. Even so, there is no reason to be unnerved by the ellipsis. This barren rock, iron and ice, remains complicit to the tenuous attractions. It maintains its predictable place. This is clockwork, the slippage of gears. This is a time machine, well-oiled a billion years ago, greased by our expectations and subservient to God.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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