“He, who was made of unsuitable things bound together by some force of will, of unimaginable power, hung suspended in the magnetic field of its ceaseless movement like an apparition. Disintegrated, blown by the wind into the autumn haze, he drifted quietly into the forest, the dark forest of his youth.”
Believe it or not, this beautiful passage is a cull from Another End of the World. It just didn’t fit the scene. Like Steven King says, to be a writer, sometimes you have to kill your babies.
LA taught me how to lean on poles, sit on curbs, sleep on buses, trains, in crowded terminals, flower beds… the flow is so varied, and constant, that everyone is completely depersonalized. Nobody stares at you, only that you never return the stare.
Dust still hangs in the air from the morning’s hunt for all sorts of small things that roll under other things. Some of them remain hidden, or lost. My eyes still busy, I find myself reading the faces of people as they drive past, their driving masks. Continue reading →
In these quiet days of dark rooms to evade summer, I often pace the sidewalks at night, extending the dark environment to its logical end. If life were only this, if there were some way to study, to absorb the strange, wonderful, disturbing events of these turbulent times, to create, to write… but this is only a lull. Continue reading →