Blueprints

Lines reach, tiptoe, stretch,
Born from the edge of the page at the west.
To the east, they fade away;
Live to find the edge another day.
Gridlocked, intersecting,
Now and then woven, swirling,
Leaps in time not misaligned
But certainly not parallel, not exactly,
That’s not how life goes, in progression
It’s more like that rife old illusion,
The visual confusion begging the question
Of whether the lines are straight
Or slightly jarred, wobbly, like the gait
Of a man after one too many whiskeys,
Some lines are twisty, even wispy––or are they?
The jury’s out in that regard,
And in this one:
Call me daring, dumb for looking
I’m a gambler, but if I’m lucky,
This page is far from over,
Far from touching the eastern shore
And ending, sadly, quite abruptly.


I try not to make a habit of explaining myself when it comes to poetry, but I want this poem to be both understood and duly credited. This was inspired wholly by the brilliant Warren Ellis. Each week, I read his Orbital Operations newsletter (and, to every single writer out there reading this now, I highly recommend you do the same).

This week, Warren discussed MEMORY THEATRE by Simon Critchley, a long short story, as Warren puts it, “about philosophy, doom and the tricks and traps of obsession.”

You’ve all learned about memory palaces from SHERLOCK, I’m sure. Imagine a physical one. Imagine it being constructed according to maps and diagrams of a person’s entire life, birth to death and everything in between. Imagine being given those maps and diagrams. Imagine finding maps and diagrams for your life within them. And you’re not yet dead.

– Warren Ellis

As soon as I read this, I started writing Blueprints right away. For me, the imagery Warren describes was impossible to ignore. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my interpretation of this idea of life represented visually, physically, as a blueprint. I sincerely hope this digression from the norm, this explanation, hasn’t tainted the experience for you.

From the bottom of my heart, I love you.

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