August 1, 2020
Moonbeams and the sounds of cicadas. I’m in the desert, in my childhood bedroom.
“What’s wrong?” one asks. “You have a puzzled look on your face.” the other adds.
Consumed by the loss of time. In Spanish, as if to justify my being away from home, I pose:
Through the recollections of bohemian poets, in the late 20th century, one grasps facets of the human condition. It’s not all interesting, but it’s alive. One learns of present concerns as the past is revealed. Could you call this generative literature? Is this just not our reality?
There’s a sense of reliance in reverberation. Listen to the rocks clashing beneath your feet. However you step, you will always hear the same sound—until you don’t.
I wonder if these remarks of momentum marked mine. “She’s scatter-brained,” my parents will say.