January 1, 2012
I sat in bed reading The Sentient Stranger and looked out at the empty street. Someone kept calling but the satellite was defective. Earlier, I'd decided to sever all known links to the past, no crisis for the mailman. Boundaries, you cannot really have enough. Like bran accumulating in whorls on the rutted earth or cats circling milk, my thoughts were wanton. It was as though my doctor pronounced me ready for a bout of amnesia just when I was ready to put the gloves on again. I couldn't begin to give an account of the latest days. On the radio, someone was saying something about how no two people could agree about the meaning of a sentence, how nothing really is required of us. I wanted to pound a three penny nail into the speakers. There's a crack in every conversation. Meanwhile, the sky out my window has no color. Blackbirds pass overhead like punctuation. There's a feeling like rain. Once, in high school, I knew where I wanted to go. This was during my senior year. In class, our history teacher apologized profusely for what was coming. Every coastline would change, he said. It was the first encouraging thing he'd said all year. I stood and moved toward the door. I wanted to return to the refectory. Thinking, at the time, the road is made by walking.
So much to like about this.
"Boundaries, you cannot really have enough of them these days. Like bran accumulating in whorls on the rutted earth or cats circling milk, my thoughts were wanton."
Speaks volumes in a few short words. Hard to do, but you've done it brilliantly.
thanks for reading & commenting, sally--
My sentiments exactly.
Seriously: intriguing language and has propulsion; thanks for this.*
A wonderful urgency pervades here -
"There's a crack in every conversation. Meanwhile, the sky out my window has no color. Blackbirds pass overhead like punctuation. There's a feeling like rain. Once, in high school, I knew where I wanted to go. This was during my senior year."
Good piece, Gary. Great way to close.
Gary, the rhythms here are superior. It wants to break into lyricism, but the speaker/author/narrator -- or something higher (!) -- puts the stops on it, the reins, the brakes, and it comes out clipped, while hoping to gain speed and ground. *
larissa, sam, ann----thanks so much for reading this little one. and happy new year, for sure--g
excellent writing. love, " Blackbirds pass overhead like punctuation."
Hard to do but you've done it, yes: again.
james, jmc, grazie mille--
Well done!
*
thankee, bill--
"There's a crack in every conversation." Should more or less be our mantra, Gary. One fine New Year's read.
Earned authority and graceful expression, everything to like, nothing to fault.
dan
i thank you----g
david,
your comments always make me smile---am grateful--
*The road is made by walking*. Good piece. I felt it to be a prose poem.
thanks again, sylvia--gary
Masterful.
thanks, jeff
Look: a very sturdy soaring winter kite here. High.
thx, jim