[now there

are two opened out to the world, like ears, like bells, like halves of balloons. I am okay with piling these notes up against the door. Today was a long way from summer. I could see snowcaps on the mountains, the candy made fact. Actual experience turns my head around. You know a thing because of description or depiction or metaphor but having never seen it you don't know it in the same way. Sort of the way a bracket works: you throw one in and it opens up a space, a thinking space in which to diverge, to pace, to make peace with whatever trembling idea is working in the mind and won't let you continue until you work it out, give it room to run and extend itself. These things open. They are invitations to the world, or what is left of it. Sometimes I wonder if there is any there there at all under the snow or behind the fog, underneath the hem of dark. Individual experience is tough to transcend. I mean, Willard, like, fuck. Sometimes you just want to tear a piece of yourself off and attach it to the world, pop it in a socket or a freezer hole like a popsicle or to have your gaze fasten on something tiny. Maybe like an atom if we could see atoms. Or maybe something simple, the head of my broken leopard statue.

The head is all that's left. I shuffled the rest offstage in a combination of dustpan and trash. It was there—just a day ago—and then a body nudges it and it is on the floor in pieces. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. But I keep the head. When I see the head, when I really see it, when I open up the eye and let it just stew and look at it and when it reveals whatever it is going to reveal... when I see it, I can see the whole. It is a representation. An asterisk standing in for a star. A colon and a comma standing in for a face, emotion, our brains flooding out the rest.

But I digress. I digress a lot—