If we are to break, can we at least continue to break?

James Bowden

Louise Glück writes that a love of form is a love of endings. I’ve not known what to do with this for a long time, the ending and the longing. Today, midnight, I am sitting on the floor of my old bedroom, no longer mine, sifting through all the letters ever written me. God, I am sad. My friend Antonia, whom I miss so dearly, whom I cannot think certain phrases without hearing the voice of, has written in a postcard that a love of chaos is a love of continuity. Isn’t it? On the front, a beautifully blue chunk of ice breaks from a glacier. Documentary-makers have to wait a long time for such shots, apparently. Biding all that time only to capture something breaking. It’s a metaphor, isn’t it? Isn’t it?