Friends, I find me in a deeply
dangerous situation.
The wind moves. The keyboard is warm
and welcomes use. A blank page: unused file space. What delicious
adventure.
The world is filled with broken tree
limbs, gardens filled with clay, air still as algae, the body made of
sweat at the very edge of a heavy terrible headache. Summer becomes.
Sleep may be a dream tonight, waiting
for the cool to land.
I crave books of walks, long
conversations, politics, morality, food – ah, food – dusty travel
and bitter endings.
It has been more than a month since I
read the review copy of The Art of Joy and still I cannot face
fiction that is uncrowned with the name ‘canon’ – how I
relished it!
It would be a lie to say that to be
surrounded by Beauty makes noticing that which is beautiful difficult
to see. It would be more correct to say that there are different ways
to see Beauty, because it takes every different form. Sapienza’s
great work shocks, titillates and provokes as it draws you in almost
tenderly without care or gentle caress. This novel, much like its
protagonist, does not need to care for you, but does need you. I do
not remember the last time that I jumped when addressed by the
author. (I am sure that it has happened before. It is forever a shock
to be seen instead of safely invisible, regardless of the
circumstances.) When Modesta calls out the fourth wall, it is
destroyed. Such is her power and the strength of her narrative.
The constantly shifting routines of
work and life have begun to be familiar, and now there is time for
getting into trouble again. Trouble in my world is in story, fairy
tales and odd little sestinas. The USPS and I occasionally are on
again.
This evening my fingers found
themselves in motion on these keys, with nothing else to add but what
they themselves created.
I am out of practice, but the habit and
muscle memory are well established. I do not miss the troublesome
rush of creation or the conflicted afterglow: exhausted exhilarated
stiff with stillness and incapable of the moment, whatever moment it
is. I am terrible at drugs, even the ones that are the same as just
being me: learning, connecting and occasionally creating.
It’s strange and unwholesome, I tell
you.
How do I know this?
I’m still typing.
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