by Seb Parker
I begin writing, first choosing what
should begin. As the second sentence
progresses, I realize this appears more to be an example such as the one one could find in an editorial styleguide––something
devoid of life. Such is postmodernism. With this conclusion in hand (or mind, for
that matter) we, you and now I, must forge another path. Perhaps I should ask you what road would be
best traveled along. However, you’re
answer would be unheard. A passive
listener I will be then. See…now we’re
building steam. Okay, so our conclusion
must be to leave it up to me before you will see it, and only afterward can it
be said I’ve been read. Creation,
forthwith: Now: Now:
Now.
Similarly, beginnings occur again
and again, repetitious and redundant. Repetund. Aha! A new language to leave in our wake. Vlagging tempist flu innernite, enciting sflight two closes
ayes. Annur slowly borne back out again. Tight T. I see what I hear right now and I’ll tell
you…or show you rather, as you read (continue) anonwards. Puritan
fathers, like
“Let me just say, now that I’ve
found a means to speak, that I sincerely and truly write in a proper manner,
with full grammar and poise, whenever I so wish—and never could I duplicate the
form as seen above three lines to anyone down here below.” Unless, that was, I became the reader now,
which I can do now that I can look over what has come before. Allow me to demonstrate: The first line of this…this…we still have to
come up with a name for it, and I suppose I’ll have to…was, and I quote, I
begin writing, first choosing what should begin, which, now that I look back
upon it, wasn’t a very good beginning at all.
Nevertheless, may I change it? I
doubt you can answer.
But what if it was I reading me, as
I had done in the previous paragraph.
Then I answer myself––a moment of masturbation. Then I become you. Or not you, since it is
hard to tell coming from where I am.
It sounds real good right now, the possibility of rereading myself,
becoming a myth unto myself. Masochistic
narcissism is what that is. See how I’ve
creating my first rule (at least the first one I’ll acknowledge) before your
very eyes?
And as King, I decree, from my moment in the long-ago
past, that we return once again to the possibility that the reader may be me,
even if the Hindus are right and my atman’s resprung
two thousand years hence, or the Buddhists who’d say any reader is me and not
me all at once without a beat, what implication does that have, if any? Do we have parallels or mere triangles or
gobbledygook without meaning? That’s
what I’m afraid of, if you were wondering.
I’d hope you’d tell me if you did, too; unfortunately, I can’t and
neither can you. What a pickle we’ve
gotten in ourselves.
Wait a second…I can end this any
time. Even then—left you hanging, and
knowing that I know this, you’re still reading.
But, on the other hand, you can see how below much black remains on this
page like some all-divining god, past and future within reach. Yet you stand as a strange visitor from a relative
future. And I am this, a ghost from the
past. Let’s just say we’ve met somewhere
in-between, like the hyphen you’ve just seen.
A nice bar, an instant of aggregating heaven.
Better to be clean about things, tie
it all up and throw it out. As a final
act I’ll lay out a classic ending, so everyone feels the far shore beneath
their feet. Are you ready? Am I?
Let’s see: I’m scared to die. Not yet.
But I’ve got to hurry. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.
So:
The end.
There.
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