Monday, May 10, 2010
A life, a life, somewhere, a life. See him, there. Him, you, we. A sum total of others, of Oprah, punk rock and pedestrian crossings, of interest rates and sex tapes, the sugar content in Fanta and stem-cell research. All of this, the grey betweens that filled his hours, his cells. Running for trains, piled dishes, offers of upgraded mobile phone deals. Picking the keys off the hook on the way out, throwing bags down on the way in. Everywhere things ended, everywhere people left. Pico Iyer's continent of jet lag. Howard's taxes. Our own inner wars.
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Five years ago I read many of your posts on livejournal. I commented once or twice, and you were kind enough to return the favor. (I'm not the wordsmith you are) Last night I meandered back to the site. I posted, not noteworthy. Then I read a few of your more recent posts, as well as several I'd read before. I still feel, as I did then, that your writing captures emotion in a way that is real and fantastical simultaneously. You play words like a piano, playful trills and ominous chords, ambitious melodies, familiar tones. Anyway, I just wanted to say, really, that I'm glad you're still writing. Cheers.
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