Sunday morning rolled out of bed, knew exactly what I wanted to eat. Had dreamt of seeing a white flycatcher on a tree far off, and of two men nursing a dying turaco, I called it a toucan. It's fallen onto a road and I've seen a bird like that, fallen onto the road, ran over toads side of road, sandened parts beige walk-a-way.
GIRL WALKS TO SMALL SIDE TUCK SHOP NESTED IN AN UNFINISHED HOUSE. REACHES OUT FOR CANNED TOMATOES WHICH TURNS TO A REAL TOMATO FRUIT ONCE SHE GRABS IT. GIRL AND SHOP OWNER'S DAUGHTER (WHO TAKES CARE OF THE SHOP) ARE IN SHOT, LANDSCAPE, CUT OFF TORSO.
I needed some distance from the whole thing. I had to remove myself from this arborescent mode of thinking, to have believed that one thing leads to another to another, I knew I lacked an ability to advocate for myself, it was utterly woman of me. I needed to condense things into a clear and simple image. If I could fan out like a hand saying FIVE.
GIRL SQUEEZES AND MOLDS FACE, REDUCED FRAME RATE, SCREEN SIZES OUT INTO THE LEFT CORNER WHERE GIRL CONTINUES TO MOLD FACE, MAIN SCREEN HAS CLOSE UP OF GIRL GRABBING TOMATO, GRABBING CAN, GIRL CONTINUES TO MOLD FACE
SPAGHETTI BOILING IN PAN, BIRD SOUNDS, CRETIN SOUNDS, AND GIRL SITTING ON BED.
I have to focus on the things that matter, like my mother getting better, like what again, my father and his prostates, like reassemblage, putting the human project back on the trackball which controls the motions of the cursor.
My totally homely mother.
PHONE TO EAR, CENTRAL SHOT, RULES OF THIRDS.
Was Arthur ever real, I think about this all the time, that story of sword and stone, this king on flattened morass, predestined to open the windows every time he had wanted to let out a sigh, holding aristocratic dinners in all his well-powdered courts, and what did he do when his hair caught on fire when he received the Holy Spirit with Paul the apostle, was the early church everything he expected, how did his highfalutin artistic guests react when he gave a perfunctory unveiling of our Lord. And Galahad, the patron saint of virginity and how he was castrated by his wife, even when he wore a chastity belt to ease her jealousy. Suppose I stayed the full hour, suppose I made sense of it all, every black box, like all real-world objects are, the only thing that matters now is the human-project, filling in the gaps with chips and capacitors and multinucleated masses, to be informed by the past and move forward each time, each step towards a lexical entrainment with what I have known to be within me.