Odd, following a list to prove I’m organized. More, I think, to get things done. The mind, when left to its own devices, tends to watch the movies that it loves the best and so a map proves at the very least, intention.
But picking up a text on Algebra, to merely look up and confirm a single thought, the lure is there and numbers call with voices that are graphite in response and tempt me with their neatness and decision. Not now, I say, I’m anxious to move onward; a path I’ve marked out with keyframes of song and words and images drawn by hand from lines that twist and move into a form I can’t deny.
There is a story to the numbers, true enough. But the ending always must come out the same. Ah, but the story that revolves in circles, angles, rods and cones, is moving toward an end that has no end, and in that alone is more inviting.
The book is shut but left for but another day.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology