The game I’m playing with this blog is diffuse, unregulated, and often as terse as one can be while engaged in verbal or textual expression. It records postscripts to thoughts I haven’t shared, reactions to events only I have witnessed, impressions of hardly embossed moments.
The afternoon sun is drenching the room in bright rust, the stark blue sky a palimpsest in the bare trees, and as I stare out the window, I find myself remembering things from our trip.
We drove up from LA as the afternoon faded, and in the dark, we passed a trailer park lit like a prison compound. They kept Ezra Pound locked in a cage beneath floodlights all night. How many Pisan Cantos are being written in one of those light-drenched shacks?