Iteration III


October 20, 2009

I dearly miss my twice-yearly trips to Boston. Taking off from the toasted grassy hills of San Jose and arriving at Logan before I realized that this was something wrote before. Let me start over.

When I was four years old I went on a hike with my parents. I don’t actually remember where in the world we were at the time, but I will call it New Mexico for the purposes of repeating myself. Fuck.

There are no maps on the walls in this room. No pushpins holding New York up over Costa Rica. Which makes this paragraph merely derivative, not repetitive. It’s not really any better, though, is it?

I have no way in at the moment. There is a terrible tangle of words behind by eyes, and I am far from being able to start unraveling them. My dad taught me about knots. The first step is to find the end, and that, at least, I have done. I found the end, but now the tangle needs to be teased apart. Slowly loosened. I don’t have the patience for it that he did.

Let me illustrate: We used to take family trips to the local dump. Perhaps that is an overstatement, but my brothers and I would not let dad go to the dump without us, and we would often spend a few hours there. There were old engines and broken televisions and all sorts of interesting things lying around. One day I found a combination lock lying in one of the piles, and while my brother Cory and I broke bottles and stacked up boxes into towers and then kicked them over, my dad sat on the bumper of the car and worked out the combination. One one one. One one two. One one three…

My own instinct is to buy a new lock. Or to get the Dremel tool and cut through the mess the easy way. I get to a certain point and it’s all just busywork. I want words, one after the other. I want to say whatever this is, but it always comes out as nonsense.

And so I am at an impasse. I have found the end, and I wish I could lose it again.