In the Garden, In the Garden!

That book by that lady...Frances Somebody, with the girl from India named Mary popped into my head as I was reading Haruki Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun. And I started to write. I can't even tell what's good anymore.


"What you want to say is that the cement that makes you up has hardened, so the you you are now can't be anyone else."

"If you want a cat, all you have to do is choose a life in which you can have a cat. It's simple. It's your right...right?" (Windup Bird Chronicle)

Right. Simple.


      Just when I let myself relax into his prose, Murakami surprises me with a strange turn. It's not Vonnegutian. It's not even Pinter-esque. Is it Japanese? And if so, why? Is there really a difference between East and West?
      Does this have something to do with why I cry now at the end of Sex and the City? Is it the Pill or is it me? That's not nihilistic--I'm still asking "to be" questions.

Sitting there, marinating in coffee, I can almost feel it at the base of my spine. They did not remove it after all, when they laid me out too flat. It retreated for a time to tingle in solitude somewhere so centered that it was outside completely.




Waiting at B-Dub's

A murder of new ones tests the air. It's all pomp from here to the ocean--flight aside, they equate love with nearness and the scent of beer. Inspiration ruffles some feathers and we find it is easier to just enter than to wait to not be alone in the 11 o'clock hour. Bad noise under their ruby throats, they flick off the snow. I hope to sing, too, one day.