Monday, October 20, 2008
Wet grey quiet morning, red and yellow mixed with green in the gutter leaves. Cool blue western sky, the last traces of last night's storm rolled up like a folding convertible roof. Warm in my long brown winter coat, the comfortable one with the turned-up corduroy-lined collar and the worn brass buttons. Sunlight and shadow on wet black pavement, on the VPD cruisers and yellow crime tape strung around the targeted shooting/traffic fatality just east of Kingsgate Mall.

"The everyday." John Latta:


Mind brushes off
What it cannot
Hold, nor hold

Itself against, rebuffs
Opacity and indigence
And hatred alike. . . .

Neaera's quick intelligence works like lightning; she gestures with her hands and shining eyes. It continuously surprises me how fast she names her feelings. Most of the time I don't really know what I'm feeling, or am only really conscious of feeling after-the-fact. "I've been thinking..." The world apprehended as a blizzard of discrete details. Schizophrenia: faces leering from trees and boxes and highway dividers. "Ghosts." No background, everything (even "fallen" or '"abject" things) stridently insisting on its own distinctive presence. Lookit me!

"Sometimes I think that this whole thing, this whole business of a world that keeps waking itself up and bothering to go on every day, is necessary only as a manifestation of the intolerable. The intolerable is like H.G. Wells's invisible man, it has to put on clothes in order to be seen. So it dresses itself up in a world. Possibly it looks in a mirror but my imagination doesn't go that far." (Russell Hoban's William G.).

L. and I go walking. L. talks fast into her mobile, squares her shoulders, effortlessly steps into her public persona, the one that parses and constructs narratives for a living. Her loud clipped diction expresses nothing but certainty and confidence, qualities I guess I possess too, but only after-the-fact. I don't know what I'm thinking at any given moment, or what debris might inexplicably bob up from the "drowning machine"'s turbulent recirculation. An inner tube, a smashed kayak, sticks and leaves, a waterlogged canoeist's corpse. But the water's surface looks deceptively calm.

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