Aware of the music here, FM rhythm (pause) and blues (comma) the image (of a coffee shop of a Saturday evening) as thought of, lapses, as though its specific potential keeps tapping me in time, in tension; as words struggle from a self-conscious fix of impropriety (the thing is not the word) to active thought, significant Time is attention; timing (of event and change) is form; form is intention. (The human “I” is like and egg yolk in a glazed bowl which won’t be broken with a wooden spoon. Alive, like an eyeball, it averts itself from the deft thrust of. And it is not like, for it is not round. It is the deft trust, say, of apt indirection, a perception of). Aware of the image, it (the “it” the others see: scratching the back, writing with the composure of true comfort: this man alone, intent, on what) is capable of an ease, since, in trust, I take it for granted. I, tempted by this ease, frequent the coffee shop. Here the local reaches into grip me from for example the occasional gaze of that beauty, glancing up, or of the smiling coffee drinker aware that Effort produces intelligence. That’s what I think, and so with words I struggle, I gather into, to think it again.

20 March 1977