It is sometimes the way she doesn't. And that can be enough. I recounted the incident of Zechariah's broken arm in the summer of 1984... 85. These things are beginning to slide out of memory. When we transferred all the super8 to video, and started doing everything in harsh lighting. Magic tricks are more exposed. Memories have permanent waves and headbands. Editing machines whir and buzz at the Savings and Loan, in the middle of the night, as we wait to see what father has made of our horsing around. It runs together. Everything. With cuts and wipes. A cutaway. And I can't remember who I loved before this moment, nor predict what I will love in the next. Borges sometimes insists that all moments are present moments. And sometimes he changes birds into squadrons of bombers. There is a word at the bottom of the page in my notes. I am not certain it applies. Dictionaries can be trusted only to tell you the meaning of a word, not the proper way to toss it into conversation. For the latter, trust a woman.
"hansei"
It is something needed as I wade deeper into these waters. There is only ever deeper to go, and no retreat. Or else there is only ever the depth that is, and no other.
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