rlbourges

Slow, Fast. Shift.

In Animals, Current reading, Drafts, Hautvoir, Local projects on January 28, 2014 at 7:05 am

Assuming all six show up for the final workshop in the three that were scheduled. With a lot of tweaking and editing, two of them may end up with stories worth sharing with a reading committee; all right, I’ll make that three. No matter what the starting point may be, the crucial issue remains: what do  you make of the impressions? The vivid recollections or the vague, persistent sensations? The obsessions. The tiny voice that says: and yet…

Images from childhood. Images from extreme circumstances when because of age, illness or unscheduled events, the familiar was jarred into dislocated jumbles. Someone, somewhere, tries to smooth out the wrinkles or glue back the dishes so you don’t notice the hairline cracks. But that’s assuming you find all the pieces. You never do.

How much comfort is enough? How much is too much? How much mayhem and disruption can this body take? How much can that one withstand? When fearless? When cringing? Let sleeping dogs lie, says one. Another comes along, and goads them with a stick.

Reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Or: how the unspeakable can be spoken. Everything depends on… ah. On what. The place. The inner place from which you take it on; or it takes you.

Spring in cold countries. Nothing to do with the idyllic. The grinding sound of thick, yellowed, dirty jammed blocks of ice, the white and blueish underside when, finally, one of them breaks free and topples over. Down the stream.  Then another. Then a cold spell, and another ice jam. Embâcle. Débâcle. 

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