Came across an unexpected reference to my past in a book I am reading for work. A name leaps from the white page and transports —
How unnerving that time can shift like that.
Writing is slow, slow, but an occasional line or phrase that even if useless in itself as a line, provides a point of departure:
One comes to love, inexplicably, the places they first found love.
Carried all morning like a koan.
The morning’s labors: meditation on train stations as sites of desire.
Emerging from a few immobilizing doubt-filled days. Circling the fallow ground.
On the one hand: I am too attentive to the moment-by-moment shifts in my own mind. On the other: my own mind is locked cabinet.
From my notes, from the news: A litter of kittens taped into a cardbox box and buried.
From the news: The body of a Georgia man who was found dead, rolled up in a gymnasium mat, exhumed for the second time.
The morning’s (other) labors:
I am here to be with my father. The father I barely know. I get up early. Run through the village and down by the quarry. He sleeps. His wife boils water in an ancient kettle, stirs coffee powder into it. I don’t know how long I will stay.
We fight about the weather. “I wouldn’t call that a light rain,” he says.
At night, he takes me down to the tavern where his friends gather around a table in the back. They drink, play cards, tell stories about the war. Sometimes I stay. Sometimes, I take a stool at the bar instead. There’s always a pile of old newspapers and magazines and I scan through them idly while Kit, behind the bar, pours the gin.
In the news: a box of kittens taped into a cardbox box and buried. A kid walking through the woods heard mewling. I’m languishing here, but I am not yet ready to leave.