an ingenious new letter

The jarring thing is this–moving from a completely confusing and sweetly shadowy surfaceless passageway to the emaciated logic of pulling clothes from the backpack, one after the other, pressing each one to the nose to judge the relative degree of smokiness, a smooth-talking (to me, anyway) residue from the lungs of people, which have also given me other things, namely, the vowel sounds of the words which they desired to make known.  Reading Borges I sank, a sedated horse in the mud, and only at the moment of inertia became aware of how foreign was the opaque substance which now rolled like a wind across wheat fields around me.  Too, immersed in the rich exhale of a million people the mosaic kept some quality of sanity, the pan flat memories of which appear as filthy 1980s imitations of Picasso, an abject failure to make sense of the connections between local brewed beer, conservative economics, a schools system which stamps a scar of social caste on its middle school diplomas, well maintained public transport, the German alliance, gardens trimmed by chess masters, radio stations playing American oldies, fourteens, fifteens, sixteens loose in the city at night, and the young guy who said, see that restaurant over there, that’s where I cook, seven days a week, don’t have much time for museums, but what you’re looking for probably isn’t around these parts, sorry I can’t help you any more than that. The minor relevance of names which have been written on scraps and pages in the kneading horror of, and as such exemplify, the understanding that so fully rendered are the nuances of this reality that subsequent reflection shall turn circles to squares.  “Sudamérica” and “Afghanistan” are words to me.  As well are the other places, only just so long ago I felt the world of a young woman who needed to explain both the national anxieties of the 1920s and the modern rise of a new genre of patriotic song, which I should still like to express some closeness to, if Derrida would quit scoffing at me.

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