3 Index Cards
The wall had shown me chapters. What I lacked,
I thought, was something that would show the claims.
I bought plain index cards, the white kind, stacked
In a shoebox. One per card: in front, the claim’s
Fewest words; and, on the back, exact,
The chapter, page, and sentence that proclaims.
All copied out, each one, by my own hand.
It took most of a month: more claims than I had planned.
I thought, was something that would show the claims.
I bought plain index cards, the white kind, stacked
In a shoebox. One per card: in front, the claim’s
Fewest words; and, on the back, exact,
The chapter, page, and sentence that proclaims.
All copied out, each one, by my own hand.
It took most of a month: more claims than I had planned.
Most claims were small: a date, a street; and, too,
Which apprentice married whose daughter. All
Went down. The shoebox filled. I bought a new
One, labeled both, and kept them by the wall.
And, for the first time in a year, I felt like one who
Was running a project, not someone in its thrall.
The cards worked as the wall had worked: at first.
Change a sentence, change its card. And then, reversed:
Which apprentice married whose daughter. All
Went down. The shoebox filled. I bought a new
One, labeled both, and kept them by the wall.
And, for the first time in a year, I felt like one who
Was running a project, not someone in its thrall.
The cards worked as the wall had worked: at first.
Change a sentence, change its card. And then, reversed:
When I couldn’t find a card, I’d write
A new one; later, find the old. And so,
Two cards for one claim, disagreeing, quite
In my own hand. The rounds of four and nine would go
Through the shoebox now, each twice as long. I’d cite
The proof. One card fell behind the radiator, low.
I didn’t notice. A shoebox doesn’t say
What it is missing. I found it in March, the day
A new one; later, find the old. And so,
Two cards for one claim, disagreeing, quite
In my own hand. The rounds of four and nine would go
Through the shoebox now, each twice as long. I’d cite
The proof. One card fell behind the radiator, low.
I didn’t notice. A shoebox doesn’t say
What it is missing. I found it in March, the day
The heating went off, and my arm reached where it slid:
The card for chapter nine’s shop. And it said
What chapter nine said, which by then nothing else did.
I put it back. I’m not sure where. Instead,
A spreadsheet: one can’t fall where that card hid,
Which was most of its appeal. Each card I fed
Into it: a row per claim, with columns, four
In all. Three hundred and twelve rows. Then, one more:
The card for chapter nine’s shop. And it said
What chapter nine said, which by then nothing else did.
I put it back. I’m not sure where. Instead,
A spreadsheet: one can’t fall where that card hid,
Which was most of its appeal. Each card I fed
Into it: a row per claim, with columns, four
In all. Three hundred and twelve rows. Then, one more:
A column for status; the status was a hue:
Green for a note that matched its sentence still;
Yellow for check; red for contradicts. That would do
About a week. Then orange, to fulfill
Contradicts but I like it. Orange was mostly four, it’s true.
Four colors, at eleven at night, are more than any head will
Hold, so I added a tab called Legend, with a cell
For each color, and, at its top, a note explaining the orange as well.
Green for a note that matched its sentence still;
Yellow for check; red for contradicts. That would do
About a week. Then orange, to fulfill
Contradicts but I like it. Orange was mostly four, it’s true.
Four colors, at eleven at night, are more than any head will
Hold, so I added a tab called Legend, with a cell
For each color, and, at its top, a note explaining the orange as well.
I kept it most of a year, and got good. I could sort
By color, filter by chapter, and, on any night,
Tell you how many rows were yellow. What fell short:
Whether the green rows were still green. It knew, all right,
What I had typed. The chapters? It held no report.
Each change meant finding its row; forget, and it stayed bright
Green, about a sentence that no longer existed.
The sentence went; the row, in green, persisted.
By color, filter by chapter, and, on any night,
Tell you how many rows were yellow. What fell short:
Whether the green rows were still green. It knew, all right,
What I had typed. The chapters? It held no report.
Each change meant finding its row; forget, and it stayed bright
Green, about a sentence that no longer existed.
The sentence went; the row, in green, persisted.
I write about software for a living. I bring
It up because it took me this long to tell
Myself. The script was forty lines, a Sunday thing.
It read each note, found its sentence, and would yell
When that had moved or changed. And that was everything.
It had no opinion on the dash, and, truth to tell,
Didn’t know there was a dash. That evening I ran it, and it led
With this, the first thing that it printed, the first thing it said:
It up because it took me this long to tell
Myself. The script was forty lines, a Sunday thing.
It read each note, found its sentence, and would yell
When that had moved or changed. And that was everything.
It had no opinion on the dash, and, truth to tell,
Didn’t know there was a dash. That evening I ran it, and it led
With this, the first thing that it printed, the first thing it said:
ch. 8, line 77: changed. The note says 1684; the sentence says 1694.It found fourteen contradictions. Broken, I thought.
The book had one contradiction, which I knew
By heart. I went through all fourteen, and sought
The bug. It wasn’t broken. Some were, in new
Clothes, the two shops. Some weren’t: a date that eight had brought
A decade off from three’s; in five, a Scot who,
In ten, was not. And three I’d fixed, but where?
Not in the book: only in the spreadsheet there.
The book had one contradiction, which I knew
By heart. I went through all fourteen, and sought
The bug. It wasn’t broken. Some were, in new
Clothes, the two shops. Some weren’t: a date that eight had brought
A decade off from three’s; in five, a Scot who,
In ten, was not. And three I’d fixed, but where?
Not in the book: only in the spreadsheet there.
That Thursday’s one-on-one with Hedda was the first
Where I spent twenty-six minutes not rehearsing, before
She asked, “How’s the book?” I answered, unrehearsed,
“I’m building something for chapter four.”
She looked a moment longer than the four minutes disbursed,
Then said, “Good,” and wrote it down. Two weeks more,
Her document was open, and, under Other, the line was new:
Book: ch. 4 (tool). In three years, seven characters it grew.
Where I spent twenty-six minutes not rehearsing, before
She asked, “How’s the book?” I answered, unrehearsed,
“I’m building something for chapter four.”
She looked a moment longer than the four minutes disbursed,
Then said, “Good,” and wrote it down. Two weeks more,
Her document was open, and, under Other, the line was new:
Book: ch. 4 (tool). In three years, seven characters it grew.
The script grew. Scripts do. It needed to know
Which chapters, in what order, and which notes to leave alone,
Undecided; so a configuration file would grow.
It filled with options, added nights, by morning unknown
To me; so a second came, to explain the first. And so
I spent the evenings with the script that used to be four’s own.
Better evenings. It told me I was wrong, which four had quit
Doing years before, and took under a second over it.
Which chapters, in what order, and which notes to leave alone,
Undecided; so a configuration file would grow.
It filled with options, added nights, by morning unknown
To me; so a second came, to explain the first. And so
I spent the evenings with the script that used to be four’s own.
Better evenings. It told me I was wrong, which four had quit
Doing years before, and took under a second over it.
One night it showed the two shops, as it did each night,
With all the rest. I looked up at the wall,
Still pinned with chapters, the shoeboxes in sight
Beneath it, and I saw, in the three years’ sprawl,
What I’d been looking at, in black and white:
The book had never failed at the sentences at all.
Its claims lived only in sentences, scattered, without a tether,
Across eleven chapters, with nothing holding them together.
With all the rest. I looked up at the wall,
Still pinned with chapters, the shoeboxes in sight
Beneath it, and I saw, in the three years’ sprawl,
What I’d been looking at, in black and white:
The book had never failed at the sentences at all.
Its claims lived only in sentences, scattered, without a tether,
Across eleven chapters, with nothing holding them together.
That weekend I took the chapters down. The pins
Left holes in the plaster, in pairs, like twins.
Two weeks on, Hedda asked how the book was, as before.
“I’m building something for chapter four,”
I said. It was still true.
Left holes in the plaster, in pairs, like twins.
Two weeks on, Hedda asked how the book was, as before.
“I’m building something for chapter four,”
I said. It was still true.