done but not finished

Done but not finished, but justthesame booted out, or the cocoon the chrysalis of my centaur castle now that the story is formed, and printed, gave way. There’s that thing about typesetting, the time, the one letter at a time thing that captures you; keeps you, in the best keeping sense. A tactile, kinesthetic, sensual embrace, transporting you, holding you in the scene. In the story. In the telling. Certainly as long as the writing did. At least as long as the reading will.

A warp, a rift, a metamorphosis and now I’m done but not finished.

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And glad as I was, as I am, to be unlashed, cut loose to play at other things and romp if I choose, I’m already mourning the loss. Of course there still remains the final denouement, the final distribution of the centaur cast of letters to their rightful places in the case to be ready for the next assignment.
Not to mention the finishing.

titles title pages colophons to finalize and print

books to fashion, assemble, sew

covers and endpapers and thread to gather

a deadline of sorts (open house Dec. 2) to meet

The said&done point is: it’s not quite done. And justas at the beginning, afraid to start, now, equally afraid to finish, I loiter, I dawdle and ruminate (to mix a metaphor). And godknows colophons and title pages take as much ruminating as the rest of the project in its entirety, I equivocate. I bore myself with the niggling.
The but, and ha! thing is, ending a project, completing it, is no less awe inspiring, andso frightening, as beginning it; a different commitment, a different risk, a different position. A different perspective. And so I’m standing again, in that spot, where one has to make take the leap, of faith, but even more so, of self.

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