Older, No Wiser, and Feeling Fine

Today is my birthday. I will work, of course. I arrived at two-thirty on a sweltering afternoon, and have been sweating ever since. The riddle, if there is one, remains unsolved. If there isn’t a riddle, then that’s a riddle in itself, and something that must be pursued to an illogical conclusion. I might also do some dusting here in my parlor and workspace, which means looking at old pictures and opening and closing a lot of books. It’s important to verify that the type is still there, and, if it is, to see if it has rewritten itself into a strange new language. If the type isn’t there, I’ll look for it in other books. Because the truth is, we don’t know everything there is to know about the lives of books. For instance, I’ve suspected for quite some time that books also read people, and that pages remember sighs and fingertips. Ink is blood — we know that already; but it’s also brain marrow — as are images and letters in the form of pixels. The disease, fortunately, has no cure. I’m thankful for that.


Update:
In the Forum: bassoon overtones.