STUNNING IMPRECISION
The attic door was in the basement stairwell, the topmost
window opened to the kitchen, the bathroom was outside
on the lawn : 'How did this happen?' I had to ask, 'were not
the blueprints followed or the places we'd designed kept to
suit?' A man piped up, 'We don't design 'em; we just build.'
I suddenly realized what I understood. There is no place like
place and any historic value to living this life is given away
in good will and grace. Was it not up to me to keep watch?
-
Had I, I would have seen how events lost control and
how things got twisted and jarred. I'd have noticed the
pilot light in the bedroom window, the stove at the back
of the hall. Is this not always the way? How life gets its
theme all muddled, its meanings out of control, its order
disordered for all? I think of a tyrant, a mass-murder
dictator, some major-domo goon pulling the strings :
he squeezes out what he can for control, until even
that dead doll sings. In his hands, a jumbled mass
of twisted plans that no one ever stopped before.
-
With stunning imprecision, things pile up, break free,
lose control - and take down the whole land,
villages and all.
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