�����
the
local is the international
the national is the parochial
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It
looks like
instead of �Scottish LIterature�
it has to be �anti-colonial studies�
or some such: fair enough�
if the
narrative doesn�t fit,
fuck it then. let�s instead
have some kind of
discussion, let alone
a
�colloquium�,
on the function of relative
spacing and relative articulat-
ion in, the place of address:�
which
is to say:-
�������������������������
the page itself.
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down
this way
following
the line
of
breathing,
starting over
again
and
again and again
it
does not turn
without
that
which
carries it
over (and over)
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it�s
too easy
saying
�the craft��
defines
thing-in-itself
unique
to current instance:
�
but
how otherwise
assess
the
given syntactic
the visual plane
the
page
where pacing can be articulated
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it
seems that it�s always
the
same setting out, the same
standing
still in the one voice
looking
at it:�
������������������
hello again.
ears
not chooned to listen
outside
of the word,
�����������������
to skate between
and
away from the trampo-�
line
and
does it matter? maybe not:
let�s
head off together in this
little soliloquoy:
play
some music if you�re lucky�
if
that�s who you are, today
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the way
of it
is not always forward:
it can
sometimes
be less than that which you admire;
but
being there, with it
or is it on it, who knows
eventually
the thing itself, is:
this
the way
it occurs
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why
it should be this way
�������������������������
god only knows
if there was one�or many
whoever
invented this position
this way of being
������������������������
�living on the page
in
a voice that nobody knows, nor
wants to know: who invented it,
who invented all this
this
at least we do
together������������������������������
�����������������������
not
�the royal we�����������
you know...
�����������������������
but
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this is
the way
I think we want it
to operate: not
crowding
the page
as some larger font:
but
using simply
that which seems
easiest on the eye,
having
in mind
the relative possibilities
of
particular spacing, hallmark
of that lowercase tradition
we long admire
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turning
salty
the way
the unknown
which
way
turns
listening
partly
the waters
undivided
between
the self
beckoning
back
again
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various
the abstract
climbs
down
reckoning
always
never
the same, whenever
it
lands itself
meaning taken
over,
moving
over and out
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turning
around
and around
finding
the
only
place left
the
day
the page
another
one
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the
day
closes
it
comes
to its way
of
this being
the
end
