Errata Read Online Free PDF Page B

repetitive motions of creaky calculation as if encased in barely-yielding limestone for the ages.  For example, a c that limits itself to a rote course of crude 90 degree counter-clockwise turns every few seconds, boomerangs around, stretches out to a crooky line before returning to its curled up shape, as if attempting to express the range of its variety of sounds or to eventually unscrew itself from its paper mooring.  A T that drops its crossbar halfway, flips its left arm across to the right to thicken, curves downward to form a b , flutters to fold over and shift to its family member d , and then undoes each step to engage in its upward rise back to its early glory near the top of the vertical line, a servant in a regimented role of containment and finality.  An R that lifts its leg, rushing to strike and hold the dignified leftward profile of an ancient Semitic head.  This is only the beginning.  If the anima of the alphabet is unleashed, then the letters are free to follow their respective natures to fresh calligraphic agility like a perpetually recasting lunar cycle of new moons or an inventive body artist, to conjoin by fusing and forming composite symbols, to cannabalize, to manifest as divisible letters, all of this accumulation resulting in a natural outcome consisting of a dissolving service at readability and communication to a gradual code-like script of purely wondrous plumage.  It stands to reason.  As the letter’s bent, the word’s inclined.  Others will follow none of this, of course, preferring to keep mute, birds that wish to remain in their cages, anxiously demurring.  Most of them, though, welcome the means of expanding their potentialities. A Theatre of Objects reclaiming its essence.  The new languages exclaim, We’ve always had these capabilities, but one becomes accustomed to an underused capacity, so much so that any true tendencies have been revealed only as twitchy shudders, certain but little more than still. 

    If you’re able to read this (at least initially, in which you too will likely wound the text with your opinions), my notebook must’ve been unearthed, and I wonder if that which you’re now privy to remains cold clarity or an impenetrable animated labyrinth, a nocturnal rebus reestablishing the primacy of image over text.  Whether or not the words have become reborn as strange passages, the meaning remains the same.  I‘m not certain which version you’ll see, so no matter what you read and whether or not you’re able to read it for a second time, the meaning remains the same.  The meaning is not mundane.  The mundane remains the same.  Each same is not the same.  Now that your head’s been filled with notions of a notebook that rewrites itself, creating its own fluid text to expand its existence, be reminded that heresy begins at home and imagine how I must feel, what with my own humble fumblings.

Day 10

    Thinking of the second entry and speaking of illusions, I’ll be petty enough to impose upon you, not as a provocation, but as a throwing up of hands to say that I generally consider dialogue in print, regardless of intent, whether existing as a narrative-propulsion, means of contrived versimilitude, or of manipulation akin to movie music, to be faulty because it’s usually reality-based and not often the most useful of strategies, rarely allowing for transcendence.  On the contrary, the point of dialogue in literature shouldn’t exist to imitate reality (which typically results in diminishing reality because literary realism is often so patently unreal, but rarely compellingly so), so the usual heavy amount of dialogue offers a conflicting philosophy, plus there’s a certain expectation of what it must resemble when encountered by the reader.  Few novels are ever improved by an infusion of dialogue, let’s not deceive ourselves.  The more dialogue in a story, the less illuminating the story tends to become, page by page eventually receding to no