June 07, 2004

Black Stone 58

A FRIEND CAME for dinner. We drank wine, ate chicken with potatoes and carrots. I held Waylon as Hoa worked in the kitchen. K played with a paper giraffe he had made earlier. Waylon cried then fell asleep on my shoulder as I paced the front walk between artemesia and salvia. Roses fell with heavy pink blooms. The chicken was delicious, stuffed with lemon and white onion. K ate cookies and strips of white flesh. Waylon slept in the other room. Hoa made tea. "It's not that I'm anti-intellectual," I said. "But I want words to retain an original weight." I don't recall exactly what we discussed. But I remember that point, and he agreed. Language is a rooted thing, and our minds must be dirty to be in it, to tend those twisty, crusted branches. I enjoyed the company, opening a second bottle of wine. Our friend spoke of forgotten tongues—Transylvanian Saxon, for instance. It was used in a region of Romania where the remote ancestry of his blood extends. He spoke of medieval rhythms there, of seasonal work and the smell of hay. I tried to read between the lines, to see if there was something in his words to mistrust. But I liked the soft English rhythms after all, and I liked him. His stone was evident in the words he chose. That weight dragged out between us.

Posted by Dale at June 7, 2004 03:02 PM
Comments
Post a comment