.

it is a fascination with roads, images of roads,
curves and contours, the idea of what's unseen
that's just up ahead, and how seasons lend
elements of unexpectedness to otherwise
familiar journeys. the texture of travel
(even if it is only local) and a lingering
question; is it arrival or flight that
draws me in?

... in another life, I actually know him.

and if, as Borges states, rain falls in
the past, then snow is always falling,
always moving through the infinitive.
always coming. just look up! to feel
the timelessness of falling white.
its unending beauty. I am looking
for Borges in his words, searching
his white spaces, not for
the obvious stuff that holds him up
but for all the secrets that he hides.
and there, in the pregnant gaps between
each letter lie his unspoken things,
things that trespass my nightsky with
a familiar sense of uncertainty.

"Behind each name lies that which has no name.
Today I felt its nameless shadow tremble
in the blue clarity of the compass needle,

whose rule extends as far as the far seas,
something like a clock glimpsed in a dream
or a bird that stirs suddenly in its sleep."

(Jorge Luis Borges)