Saturday, June 04, 2011
I have been on a long, strange journey, a journey through weeds and cathedrals, a circular journey which, like a dream, ends in waking. A damp, unseasonably warm week depletes itself in storms, clogged and rumbling ears in vertigo. And, voila, suddenly all is ordinary and convalescent, bright and still. Stand on your own two feet, sit on your own two cheeks. Everything returns to the body. The stories rise and evaporate. I've been tearing up scripts for days. Circus animals nuzzle my perimeters. Was it my Ouija hand or a parrot ? And who is that woman in the pew, peeking through her fingers ? She is tired. She was up all night writing Dear John letters. They clog her Missalette like unholy cards.