One of her is following my body up and down around my head with her eyes and passively pressing a handshape to the other woman’s lips with her free hand. She’s reading something from Braille with her dominant hand out of a make-up mirror over her shoulder.
The other woman is holding a handshape up, out, and in front of her face with her fingers apart at me. I can see through to the handshape behind it, but I can’t see all of it. There’s something about the way her hand’s drawn that the lines in her palm are moving. I can feel her other hand slipping.
I’m trying to get this all down in my journal with one hand.
P1: An idea represents material.
P2: Movement represents work.
Thus, if we take the train
to represent movement in the sense
of an idea like a word math problem
(from point A to B and back)
as opposed to a math word problem
(being some kind of logical problem),
the train is no less the sum of material and work
as it is of idea and movement.
Points A and B by this account are parts of the train, since there can’t be no movement between them without it (assuming no alternate methods of transport). It should be noted, however, that the Hebrew ‘ובשאיפה טוב יותר’ detected for a ‘hopefully better’ place refers to the speaker’s desires and aspirations.
There’s no shame in paying a fare to get back to where you were with greater desires and aspirations, though the fare-taker fluent with freedom of movement rights might rightly feel that way.
Premise 1 was not intended to read as philosophically idealist, but I don’t have any problem with it happening that way.
Premise 2 will need to be re-imagined if premise 1 happens that way.
Can a point B on a railway line go (so, so and so) far away?
Weird. When I first saw the Sorghum I didn’t know what it was. The word for what it might be came to me out of the blue while I was waiting — checking with google for what to call a fly that hovers — for my snapshot to upload.
Two slices of cold pepperoni and anchovy pizza, one more beer, and the upload went through. I shut my computer down, brushed my teeth, and curled up alone in my motel bed with both pillows hugged up under my head.
Wished you would txt again to ask to catch up for a coffee one day. Told myself if you did, I’d txt back with a ‘No.’ and hit send before I could backspace the full stop and add ‘thanks, but maybe next time.’
I didn’t get any sleep, but I had a dream that I can’t remember. I know I can’t remember it because I’m sure I was on one of my harder walks (I always climb something when I walk in my dreams, and manage to not fall off it) when my phone rang to ask me how soon I could be at the meeting place.
I’d already handed the key back in, and the engine was running. I cancelled my coffee and made straight for the sale yard.
Why do you always turn up on my walk — you and I OK with each other — smiling with me like what happened never happened?
You should have seen the cotton growing up against the bales, or the tree beside the highway with all the teddy bears nailed like Koalas to it. I swung up a private driveway and parked across the gate; collected balls of cotton from the highway in my yellow hi-vis shirt.
Still felt too embarrassed to take a picture of it with all the trucks and traffic coming past.
It never bothered me before that you didn’t go for teddy bears.