A Closed System

For some reason, the word press box to the right of the screen is showing me a reminder that “transparent text may be hard for people to read”. I’m confused because I’ve never used transparent text. At least not since writing secret messages in elementary school, using lemon juice. Wait. No. that’s not transparent text, is it?

Disappearing. Reappearing. There’s another memory. Beach towel, shag carpet, tire swing. Monkey bars, dandelion flavors, an enormous model of the human ear.

Guitar, bell-bottoms, foam hair curlers.

I am just picking up random things in my past. It’s a bit like an allergy scratch-test. Does this one cause an inflammatory response? This one? There’s nothing therapeutic about it. I’m just curious.

Knowing doesn’t change the alignment of molecules. Erasing/rewriting the text doesn’t rewind the sequence of events set in motion. It begins something new. As new as the world gets.

We are messy. With an odd compulsion to put things in order.

I’m wondering about the process in which paper wasps turn plant fiber into paper. Plant to pulp to two hundred neat, hexagonal chambers lining an umbrella. Order into chaos into order. Larvae deconstruct in a cocoon. Reconstruct with wings. Order into chaos into order.

My project is still without a name. A proper title. One of the people in the WIP misunderstood and thought I’d titled it Exquisite Corpse.

But no. Exquisite Corpse is just the methodology of the world. My methodology moving through memories. It is context, not subtext.

Not the text itself.

Over now to my process journal. These things have a way of spilling one into the other. But at least, this way, nothing is entirely lost.