[Wading into a new decade (ten miles of jungle, twenty+ river crossings, one night in a cave, chimes at the altar of the Highway of Horror, then lunch by the sea) forty-five years after the exodus]
I’m lost in time, in waves of light seizing the prints, watching my own death before I existed;
I speak to him, sometimes, like a will against abstraction.
In conversation with Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
a nostalgia-scented chemical whisper / silvering up the atmosphere
knowing that the mask is more an image
“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, concerned citizens can change the world.
Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” – Margaret Mead
i’m a pretty face with just one pretty eye. / my self-worth what? its weight in storm.
If it mattered it mattered only because / it was our constant companion
Hasn’t there been a moment you never wanted to leave?
When I began to write my first book, Where I Stay, I was trying to erase the memory of certain photographs that had followed me my whole life. I think everyone has objects like that — letters from lost friends, dried flowers, old keychains — these objects stay in some box at the back of a dusty drawer. After years of struggling with the form of the book, I decided to just paste these photographs into the novel. But putting photographs with text is problematic — it disrupts the suspension of disbelief that is critical to any viewing experience. I came to an uneasy peace with this disruption — and learned to work with the space between the photographs and the sentences. This was important to me, a type of absence. I couldn’t have articulated that back then: I was just a kid. I had never been to Paris. Rodenbach, I would have thought, a type of malt liquor; Levy-Dhurmer, a jeans store at the mall. But, now, even after I’ve long retired Where I …