I am curious how you see things.
I could say that writing is often like manning the shutter valve on a high-pressure pipe. There never seems to be an end to the water that might gush out of it once it’s opened, but the ground outside only needs to be watered so much. I don’t know the exact amount, and so wait anxiously to discover when to shut the lock. But somehow (I can’t figure how it works) there is always the exact amount of water anyway, no matter what I “do.” In this somewhat pointless game, waged against myself, the trick is to turn the valve off right after the last drop drips out. Of course, the ground has been watered appropriately either way; but if you time it just right, you can almost succeed in convincing yourself you had something to do with it. This is the fragile moment of realization and consciousness: “I am doing this.” If you miss the mark, the whole thing looks like one big accident, one big beautiful accident. And after the water’s soaked in for a while, this always seems to be the unavoidable conclusion. I can’t expect it, but predict this to be true: the well will fill up again, I will irrigate another land. But still the sensation of being a part of it too often seems too feigned — a ruse of time, some game I played with myself to pretend I was involved. And yet somehow, the whole acreage went by my name. Continue reading