@ Wikipedia
He grew up among words
when words were weapons. He long wrestled them in his habitual harshness and sprinkled
just a dash of candor. Not to conceal too much, not to reveal to many. In the
economy of his own truth, the piety of his ruffled soul often encountered the
silence of a thought well foretold. It's how things came to surface in his cove.
And how they backstroke aimfully until they shored up where his willingness
would sometimes have them - when kindness would not drown them.
He was acutely wrong
about most simple definitions and yet decidedly just right about the most obscure
notions. The vast isle between his understanding and not-understanding was his
place of safety, the panic room, the uncharted territory where he would take
only the most tale-telling things: a Swatch, a maple leaf, the picture of a certain
trout, a Polish daily calendar, a canvas tote, a tennis ball, a shadow. A history book: of Art and nearly everything. A piece of concrete from a certain wall in Berlin. A pack of Melba and the map of Elba. A notepad and a pen. His windows never opened, his door wide shut to all. For the acquaintance even more securely locked than for the stranger. He didn't guard his home. He merely dug out a moat of queasy deceit and generous distrust. His better self was always at war: with self, the other and his ex-wife. Of Winesburg, Ohio and Lititz, Pennsylvania.
Quite frequently, a solitary lark took time to trill his wintry ears, too sharp to listen, too deaf to hear.
No comments:
Post a Comment