Listening and not listening to a voice outside the window. Considering and dismissing and reconsidering its value as signs of a violence against an unresponsive night.
Wallace Stevens is cool but we’re both white dudes listening to ourselves listen. And without me and without me, there’s a world of lineage and language. Oh without me and without me, the world goes on without me.
And would I even know the sound of jackboots at my door? Would I even know the sound of jackboots at my neighbour’s door?
It’s not directed to me so that’s why I don’t go to the window. And also I feel: it’s directed to me and that’s why I don’t go to the window. And also I feel: it’s directed to me because I don’t go to the window. Still I never go to the window. I never go.
It’s another Canadian evening spent in deliberate spectral disbelief. Listening and not listening, racked with murderous indecision, whether to write about it or write about not writing about it.
Either way: I can’t unknow the sound of jackboots at my door. I can’t unknow the sound of jackboots at my neighbour’s door.
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