Monday, 31 August 2009

It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.

Pynchonian disclaimers from Gravity's Rainbow, which I read only when being shuttled at great speed through twisted subterranean rail-shafts. Now is the time of moving, moving away and to a new home, staying at home and moving in. Having found a new apartment, we slowly fill all our belongings into cardboard boxes, Cara and I, and then disclose them into the bare four walls of the new place. Much is afoot, many plans are being laid out, many last moments either being compiled in advance, or, in retrospect, being forgotten.

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