Sunday, May 29, 2011

It’s been awhile since I’ve had the leisure to sit and think about what we’re doing. Something’s happening, that’s for sure. We’ve been casting things off—the house in New Orleans, Sea Wolf in Moorea—moving betwixt and between, through the liminal state where transformation happens. We’re camped out at the moment in St. Petersburg, Florida, around the corner from Adam’s brother Chris’s place. Our version of going north for the summer. White birds with curving orange beaks and wise eyes peck at the lawns. A silent man stands smoking outside the thrift store downtown, the smoke making a little world of respite around him. I can smell bacon frying. An old woman circles the park waving an umbrella, maybe someone who’s been here a long time, gotten addled by too much sun. Ratty palm trees, deco stucco, tanned brassy women driving Camaros all feel familiar, like a postcard of a place I’ve never been. It feels right to be here, waiting for a sign.  

Many thanks to all those who have been hosting us and hooking us up with places to stay across the Southeast these past couple of months, as we’ve been wheeling and dealing, writing, childraising, refining our theory of the rooted vagabond.
"I ate my imaginary word cupcake and now I remember my song."

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

For Adam, far away for a few more days

Monday, May 9, 2011

Mother's Day weekend in Greenwood


Faulkner would have felt right at home here--the same vibrations he must have felt in Oxford, the fictional Jefferson, Mississippi, resonate in this brick ranch house with the white columns and the magnolia tree, the cicadas droning an alarm, living their one day in mad, erratic exploration of the dandelions and the oaks before dropping, spent, into the dry leaves. Faulkner, or Tennessee Williams, who could represent so exactly the humid claustrophobia of family. I return exhausted, charged with familiar sensations, thick with bad memories, honored, in some way that is impossible to live, that is livable only as art, by where I came from.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

On Sullivan’s Island I walked along the strip of sand toward the inlet where the tide daily rushes in and out of the marsh. The current rippled at the edges of the stream. Somewhere at sea there’d been a jellyfish bloom, and translucent bodies had washed up along the tide line—in wait for the returning tide, secret worlds visible beneath the thick membrane of their skins. Every morning it was the same. The gray strip of sand, the waiting jellyfish abandoned by the tide, the Atlantic disappearing into a haze from which ships might emerge, tall ships, their sails taut with wind, arriving from the distant shores of Africa.

One morning a flock of gulls stood about indifferently, gazing out to sea.  As I got closer I could see, in the body of each jellyfish, a few rough slashes of the gulls’ beaks. They had sampled each one, one after the other, leaving the jellyfish leaking life, and now the tide would return only to sweep away the bodies.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

What I have been doing instead of updating the blog.