a friend once told me:
“words. why do we try to put those on things?”
as we burrow deeper into winter, more and more frequently I allow the thoughts of poets and far away novelists to swim through my mind. I teeter on the hope that, in the caesura of some line or the unwritten wink of a character’s eye, I will glean a warbled path through the year’s greyest light.
literature is another kind of map. like a pilot of any medium, you learn how to deftly navigate through breaths pent behind withheld phrases and the spewing slaver of sputtering bombast. literature allows us to accept the hollow of some haunting crook in the past or the confusion of some chaotic story without conclusion. and yet it simultaneously allows us to escape them, too. it offers profundity and complexity and order without making things too tidy.
the scurf of some thought, for example, will reveal in some silent way how the cupped hands of dried grass seed communicate a curious beauty. or don’t.
somehow, on the celluloid leaves of these ink-stained maps, stories unravel in which we see glimpses of ourselves. and gradually, the greyest light becomes a little warmer. its pulsing ambiguity lends a rippled solace that lets us peer a little deeper into the scaled extremes we slip between.