Suspected Branchings

I just hold my place. No claim to do better. The pace the world out there moves is way beyond anything I could muster. My speed is bringing a magnifying glass into focus. With crabbed feet and broken toes, I no longer walk for sport. Not a complaint, exactly, but maybe a comment on the human condition. At a certain place, you're on your own, a monad of uncertainty. Not to draw too fine a point. Dance, what the fuck, a little shuffle. Pretend all you want. Still, I see what I see, tadpoles turning into frogs, stay with me here, and the order of the day is that there is progress, a movement forward. The future becomes the present. Bifurcation was the word I was looking for, the way thought branches. If I have the day off I often end up mired in a definition or readings Mary's letters or just looking at a reproduction of one of Modigliani's last nudes. I'd argue that the "Reclining Nude" at the Met is one of the great paintings ever, a short list, a Vermeer, a Picasso, a Velazquez. You know, if you had your choice.