In Current reading, Hautvoir, Local projects, proto drafts on August 25, 2015 at 6:21 am

Things that go unsaid. Except to an early morning sky, maybe. Because the words need saying and you know the sky won’t hurl them back at you, or explain, or justify, or defend a different point of view. Years ago, you expected a dear someone’s visit. Made plans for it. Exchanged letters about details, schedules, calendar dates. Then – boom – the visit doesn’t happen. Something else was more important in the expected visitor’s world. You say: yes, of course, I understand. Maybe you mean it, being of a reasonable disposition. The hurt remains nonetheless.

Out of this personal hurt, can a fictional character make something worthwhile for others – or even for the writer? Maybe. Time will tell, today or some other day.

The school year, reaching out tendrils the way the vine does at my window. Meeting with a school teacher this morning. Has she discussed the project with her Principal? Is there a budget allocation? I don’t know. She approached me last year about her own feelings of inadequacy in teaching writing skills to her Middle School class. Wanted to explore a partnership to help her as well as the children get over the daunting aspect of it all. I glanced at some of the official wordspeak on skill acquisitions last night, and felt my own spirit shrink and long to fly out a window. How to allow the words to come out and play when surrounded by rules, goals, and the humongous fear of the ridicule about to pounce down with glee on some simple, basic and spontaneous assembly of words crafted by no one else but you. Attempting the exercise with a class of ten or eleven-year olds?

Unsaid. Unspoken. Unwritten. Giving life again to all those things pressed down into the compactor. Discarded, deleted, un-acknowledged. Facebook won’t do it. Maybe only fiction can.

In which case, at the personal level, reading Nabokov on James Joyce’s Ulysses may be the best intro I’ll ever find to breaking through to Joyce’s novel. (Amusing sidebar, last night, at the discovery of two typos that transform Vladimir Nabokov into a certain Nabakov. Almost too good to ignore. Perhaps one of the characters recalls a long-ago acquaintance by that name?)

Allez. Early mornings have turned cool here. The school year, lurking already. Calendar, rulers, pencils, crayons, and little children carrying their heavy tool kits in this season’s snazzy new selection of backpacks.


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