(About) Technology
Being framed in a book is not the end of
things. Even when the cover closes. And the
lights go out. Paragraphs mingle and whisper
in tongues. Send text messages.
The heroine knows.
Being framed in a book is not the end of
things. Even when the cover closes. And the
lights go out. Paragraphs mingle and whisper
in tongues. Send text messages.
The heroine knows.
The truth can be hard to put a finger on. Like
a trigger. Only not like pulling the trigger, because
everyone knows the reader will get the last
word.
Not the girl.
The photograph will grow on you. Slowly at
first, then blossom in the dead of Winter like a
Jade. One day, you’ll realize the photograph
has been studying you. Watching you come
and go. Knitting as you wash dishes.
Rearranging blankets on the couch. Idling.
Yesterday, it followed you outside. To the
edge of the fire.
The photograph is never distracted by
heroines, however old-fashioned, ill-fated or
shrewd. It is content to watch you read.
It would be nice if the photo would stop.
Maybe a restraining order. But to what end?
The photograph swallowed you long ago, along
with a thousand words.
The reader knows everything about the
heroine. When not reading or within earshot
of other readers, the reader refers to
the heroine’s favorite songs, foods and
movies as if they were the reader’s own. As if
the heroine stepped out of line to dodge a
bullet and the reader closed the gap.
The reader comes from a long line of listeners
who took up reading when words became
flesh. For this reason, there are days the
reader goes without reading. Or sleep.
Sometimes, the reader imagines the heroine
staring back across the fire.