last week i thought it was the Russians. i blamed their aching orchestrations, familiar and distant. Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff. finally, the broadcasts finished.
this week i blame Marguerite Duras. how can one read a novel titled The Malady of Death and not fall through the cracks, fall to a high and lonely place?
the stillness. just enough noise on the street to remind me there’s plenty of comings and goings without me. whites of my eyes burned red by the dry heat seething from the belly of the building. i am glad i don’t live in the middle of nature. the crowds and weight of many humans keep me from falling too far. if it were only me and the sky and some nude trees, i’d have to lie down in the snow. bite the mud. or worse.