mood: grammatolatry
you can jump from one stone to another. that is you must jump very quickly and touch each stone for a second. you must never step on the seaweed or the sand, only on the stones, faster and faster. in the end you become a wind, the wind itself, and it whistles in your ears and everything else is wiped out and vanished, there is only the wind and jumping and jumping and jumping.
- tove jansson, 'sculptor's daughter'
a sudden craving for things that linger, like the scraped-thin parmigiano reggiano i eat standing tiptoe on the porch while languid splinters slip into my toes. half-kissed nasturtiums lying pale on the sidewalks, the first pages of books i've read over and again. textual, textural; the world all aburn, is burning with sensations. cafe-au-lait scalds my sleepy lips, molten blue and floodlight (a soccer pitch in darkness), the acrid smell of vinegar. the surface of the harbourfront wave rough & surmountable in the empty night, salted air. these are the things that have substance. this is what we can hold in our hands.
'didn't you ever wonder?' j. asks me at dinner, ringing with hypothesis.
i look at the empty seashells, fragrant & crushed & brimming in the restauraunt half-light. the tomato-bisque blush of lobsters & already too much talk about old corsages, empty tables, a high-school faraway. the plastic bibs tied over our dinner clothes rustle when we move, and the crustacean caricatures dance silly, sideways on the edge of the tabletop.
but he doesn't mind when i answer truthful; we laugh, we talk about new lives (he has glimpses of mine; i depend on stories & catalogue the names of his strangers). later he says that i haven't changed, not really, & i am surprised. 'you do seem happier,' he adds, thoughful. the past, the past is a lightness of heart, it is without consequence & it is well-wishing.
we discussed breaking onto a ship, but we were too overstuffed with cheesecake & raspberry chai creme brulee for dessert. also, there were cameras.
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