6 MAR 07
28 sentences (from North to South and back):
"Here comes the art."
"The non-human reader."
"How surprising they are in their bodies."
"Temporarily permanent."
"Seeing is forgetting the name of what you see."
"But y'know what? Ketchup."
"We both packed scissors. And he brought two kinds of tape."
"The truth leaves your voice."
"I think I vibrate his questions."
"I wondered if he'd been a Hendrix fan, and if he needed something, where he was headed."
"Blank pages could show up as plain black. With a number. A number and sound."
"I think I'll go for the Big Daddy Skillet then."
"With a click of the darkness."
"It's always unbuilding itself. Except possibly. This thing between us."
"This here's all the milk I got till the truck comes."
"Let's walk down there and see what it means."
"That third day. That last day. Or whatever day that was."
She had to leave early--for her other reading. Her cab arrived and on her way out she quickly whispered something into my deaf ear. I took her meaning without any words received, but when I guessed at what she might've actually said, I imagined her using a line from a story she'd told over dinner at the little rib joint: "I felt tender for them."
. . . .
