This year, in our home, July and August and now September have been difficult months; no one died.
What does one write? Hollowed out, all confidence gone, wept dry–what does one write?
At the whiff of madness and grief, I am often tempted to flee into the visual and tactile arts. Abandon writing for a sojourn in process-based and non-communicative territories. Making. Solitary Homo faber.
What does one write? Picked the lock on my daughter’s room; this time, nothing found.
Silence after sense. Meaning outside of narrative. Narratives! I can’t afford them; I don’t have the foundation. Give me something material: leaf tannins staining the sidewalks, moldy melon rinds, the unread sediment of now. A narrative would be a corpse.
Meaning unmade; unmade meaning. Found.