KEATON AND JAYRA play in the front room. Last night Hoa felt cramping, drank a small glass of wine and went to sleep. But this morning there were no signs of labor. Outside the sky's grey and the air warm, damp. I've got hot tea here to direct attention, steadying it while up front K claps and jumps up and down. Mary Austin's The American Rhythm lies on the desk with other papers and letters. There's a book by Gille Deleuze with an essay on "the superiority of Anglo-Saxon literature." What a startling piece of writing. Melville, Lawrence and others figure centrally. That desire for flight runs strong through the writers I admire. They want to become, to fall into their otherness, blasted briefly at the limit of what they are and will be. This world of resistance entangles our steps, tripping us up like startled prey. The point is, I don't know where these words will take me, or by what calling the black stone will emerge. And things break in the kitchen. First, a wine glass. Then a bowl of brownie mix and raw eggs. And yesterday a mason jar fell from the counter shattering on the tile. It's break-out time. The containers are ready to release the goods.
Posted by Dale at April 26, 2004 04:40 PM