William Board, the painter, woke up in his studio that morning with a sense of infinite possibility. Then he remembered: it was a matter of a line, a line he started drawing in heavy black paint toward the edge of the canvas--but when he reached the edge, he didn't stop
--where did it go, he wondered? He remembered the painter Paul Klee writing about how he would take the line for a walk. Was it possible that the line was taking itself for a walk? And if lines could take themselves for walks was it not possible that words could take themselves for walks? Because what were written words but lines? And if words can go their own, and do, doesn't that mean they're trying to tell you something?
(and where do words go when they're not here?)
maybe they go home. And where
do words go when they go home?
They implode, deflate like a
balloon, flaking into their
component letters, atomizing into
alphabet and telescoping back into
the A of origin, the alpha --
. . . . . which hath no sound, except perhaps the breath--
that must be used to breathe life into language again, writing
into language, since aleph can only be written, but writing as
the source of language, as with the aleph, meaning nothing but
the source of meaning . . . . .
>-- title I II III IV ebr6 --<