WHERE did I write, “I’m backwards. I’m backwards.” The speaker was the youngest Burnstyn child. Mom would know his name. Did I like the sound of his delight or was it being told the story that framed my attention and the adults laughing? had he been playing like this before we came? He was in the driveway of their new house. It was my first visit and I was not yet seven.
I want to use that for an explanation for how to read the blog, which of course starts at the current entry and moves back to where I started. I look at my dozen postings and think how awkward. We come to everything backwards. We join in now and then construct back to some point that serves as a beginning and then feel like we are moving forward. How do we manage this? Is it like turning everything on our retina upside down? How many ways of playing are really partially incomplete alterations of perception?
Is there some button to push that reverses what is there?
What is it about buttons and the notion of pushing something to set it into motion? Buttons are attachments; they join layers of fabric. They are a catch. If I don’t do more writing will I have things to post and if I just post a page a day after what period of time will I have said everything I want to say about playing? I guess I’ll find out.
There's the wobble. I'm backwards.
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