The SAHARA of confinement

Say we use the image, the lit projection of our imaginative faculty. as stark as a message we glean from a passing cloud, or conclusive as the Muslim madrassah students writing in the sand of Niger or Chad or Tunisia, to define the thing recitation illuminates. I reflected on the blue light coming in my window, NPR playing, sounds coming alive & dancing around on my floor before me in an alliterative resolve. I would think my gravid thoughts were distinguished from symbols like the patterns of vocal-capacity, communicating knowledge without an embellishing image, on one hand--and just thinking that the life extinguishing the constancy of the last few moments trolling away was me flipping through a life-book, ever advancing, on the other. I knew it was two things in brief interludes with the present. The floor in its exudation of shadows was my memoir, soon enough I'd get to a pen. On my new futon I'd lie down early unresponsive to a night ardor, but listening to a phone call up the stairs & in the kitchen between my Mother and Aunt. I would fill in the gaps--intervallic silence with a lexicon of peronal history, mostly though just with abstraction. This was more truthful communication than I could then do otherwise: I wanted to object to images, therein lay my confusion. (Now doing more with advancing waywardness had its rewards.) Meaning it was not my communique' that was going on, until I so decided. However, in the end books & images were my deliverance.