Aide-Memoire

Here and there, we all write the memoire.

Now, then, here, there, but on the page,
Surprising in its blankness,
Sits the emptiness of pens,
Absence of vision,
Despair and counterproductivity,
Time and echoing time.

Black ink draws night in lines,
Weaving illusion on paper;
It holds out light, excludes it.

Thus it reveals starting points and errors,
Revisions and divisions, blots on the portrait.
Stare at it here, there, and forever.

It will never grow a mirror and reflect.

© BH, 1987

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Another archive fragment. About writing.

There’s me with my clip-board scrawling away. It was a self-portrait of fingers.

In the end it seemed elusive so I put it away for several decades.