What can I say? I have no words? Is that true? What then are these? There is always something to say? I’m not sure if I agree that there is always something to say . . . always? Never always, right? Suiting action to word and word to action is Hamlet’s advice to the players, but what about this scene before you, before me, word to scene, what has been seen to what word . . . I have always weighed my words carefully, at least I say so now . . . yes, I do wonder about what I should say . . . there are shoulds there are woulds there are coulds, all of them fools around the world, the world itself gira gira, as Angelo used to say. Who the hell is Angelo? A friend from back in college.
Are there really shoulds for such things, the things we say about incidentals, yet are there really ever any incidentals. Everything goes into a life, no? I am being grandiose, am I not? I used to have a greater penchant for hyperbole than I do now. I manage a greater balance and do not find myself headlong on a tangent here and a tangent there. Every circle has an infinity of points that comprise its circumference. Every context is circled by its perimeter of containment, no? Every circle that is the context of anything to be seen, to be understood, to be read, interpreted, critiqued, has an infinite number of potential points for an equally infinite number of tangents.
The gull on the sand on the beach in Montauk with the ocean waves breaking behind it in the shot above–picture, photo, cropped how . . . the word and . . . ? I wait. I imagine what is next,what might be coming, what could be had; to have or not to have. Words are often not enough, I know; sometimes they may even be inappropriate, I have said before this. I will not venture to say that this photo is in itself something words could not express–even the inexpressibleness of the photo could be expressed, and that would express something about the photo. There are no irrelevant details. No pictures are not worth a thousand words; that is quite bullshit.
Dinosaurs I remember when I was a boy. The Museum of Natural History was my favorite museum, one of my favorite places to go, if I were not going to Madison Square Garden for a Ranger’s game or Yankee Stadium with my dad for baseball. It was my dad I went to the Garden with for hockey. I saw my first game at the old Garden on 8th Avenue between 48th and 49th Street. . .
I remember Stephen Jay Gould and the whole birds are dinosaurs theory. Seagulls do remind me of dinosaurs. Here is my dinosaur friend one summer evening in Montauk. I am wondering now just what the new paleontology has to do with my having gone to hockey games with my dad when I was a boy and his hand was the whole of the world around mine.
The Falling Leaf Review 