Synecdoche

By way of explanation, this blog entry has two authors, as does all life. There are mothers and fathers, mothers and mothers, fathers and fathers, and everyone else. Unlike blessed human children, ideas don't come in pairs of individuals, but a multitude of pairs of individuals: each as different as they are unbearably the same. A simalacrum of a child is a child of thought, an experiment of the mind- the progeny of creativity. A synecdoche was, to the Greeks, a confluence of events happening simultaneously. It takes no fewer than two individuals to tell any story, whether or not there is or isn't another person in the room, and so shall it take two authors to spin this section of the tapestry. It is 7:43, and you (and we) are here.

Die:
like a bottle on the floor, tipped on its side. We will look elsewhere and hope to find connection in a way that has never been experienced. The future is our past, that's new? But life is all around us, how to reconcile? I think it is time to smoke, I'll see you soon ___on the other side. Light will breathe new vigor into our lives, and so I look to the moon for solace in the light. I see it now, the light; but the tunnel isn't collapsing [merely opening up]. New horizons burned in red___Silence descends upon a hill. The only thing moving is a windmill. And the gate creaking in silence as the raven swoops away. I crack open the shell. What do I see?

De femina amatando: any synecdoche would be remiss in not including a litany of names: Hazel, Adele, Tammy, Madeleine, or possibly an Olive. Any confluence of events must, by definition, feature this blazoned list in different forms: mother? wife? daughter? assistant? lover? Where these women are in the narrative is unimportant, but they are revealing almost to the point of a loss of agency. If However, as they are not mere tools of the narrative, but positions on the clock, their agency is not so important as their ability to allow the outside observer tell the time. 7:44: You are here.

we all do what we know:A couch sits in the coner velvty and old and so too does the man , shadow by the future and the old the memory follows the coming ides, as it has been told teh flip of pages from a book aremusty sonorant reminders of a not too distant past let me look, please let me see what has been withheld the tines in the road will pock holes in me, if I am refused. the old man and the sea. we all do what is natural, waht is comfortable, what is known.

ShesheshesheshethemthemthemthemwewewewehimhimhimyouyouyoumememememeherherherherIIIIIIIIIhehehehewewewewetheytheytheytheytheyususususus- one. No, two.

`what do we know what will we see if we are leaves just left of our living tree falling toward a solid, undenible concrete