Opening

The first thing--under the guise of an offer, an officer, or finally a gift-- that a writing should be is an apology: an appeal against or for the time to smooth the necessity of its theft. A moment to ask what this is for and how long it should take. The greatest advantage of the printed word is its ability to graph this desire for efficiency in an appealing format. Draft, design, and the curious ability to compress depth and pleasure into the comfort of appeal.

I was slow and daft when my aunt ask me what I was doing in california. My absolute inability to answer must have produced a pause that blossomed into an honesty, which is perhaps only a means of deterrence. We had gathered for a holiday. And there among us, the stupefaction of such annual questions gives the very gathering its meaning, as if we decorate our houses with chains of small lights to signify this very evasion. Yet, in the moment my silence was long enough to indicate some break in this formality, and with teenage words I began to speak of the mytho-theology of everyday consciousness, and when this offer began to lightly bruise our compromise, I caved and said that I wanted to see god in the event, in the providence of the sparrow.

One resents changing registers, and to bend the capacity of the offer, I write this against the defense of typology and the speed of a relevant design. One day we will write here to prove that we are healthy, and to ease the insurance of our well-being. The image is obtuse, and you may believe it false, but my thought moves slowly--the pace is glacial.