The Lost Scrapbook by Evan Dara

Author:Evan Dara [Dara, Evan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 9781573660389
Amazon: 1573660388
Publisher: Fiction Collective 2
Published: 1998-06-28T14:00:00+00:00

Hi ho—

—Just thought you’d like to know that a chaffinch is singing by my window—chortling out cheep trills and chirp cadenzas—perched tall upon a rounded bough…

—Although the song, if you really listen, actually sounds more screechy than anything else…

—Just thought you’d like to know that…

—In other words, ‘tis another letter, yes ‘tis, I may be forgotten but, alas, I’m not gone—so letter rip—letter ride—oh, letter rest—but ‘tis true, here we be, back again, right in yo hot little hands—and it’s good, it’s very good to be back, just now, in what passes for touch…

—But if the chaffinch lore seems, unlike me, unlikely, then let me swiftly aver: ‘tis true—for I seem, somehow, to have moved again—yes, I now find myself decidedly living somewhere—in fact, yo’s truly is now a dweller in a rented house (and, if that doesn’t sufficiently floor you, I will add that I actually only rent the upstairs) in the decidedly unbumptious burg of Emporia—yes, there—there where the postmen and the pharmacists still smile, where a kid pedaling a bike recently received a speeding ticket, and where time itself seems to have slept in—in other words, there’s enough good stuff here to sustain anyone—including, among such stuff, I might add, and so I will, a willow, all moody and mighty, out by the Meherrin River, a lone wood that looks as if it had been co-produced by Arthur Rackham…

—But why such moval and removal, you may wonder—well, it all began a few months ago, when a good buddy—who’s also named Robin, wouldn’t yer know it—rang up and, in the course of carousing, happened to mention that a nifty-sounding small business out thisaways was looking for some administrative help—and she said that the business was called Apeiron, and that they’re a bite-size but growing distributor of nontoxic art supplies—well, of course, all that seemed like sufficient incentive for me to zip up my zip code and exchange identities yet again—for self and sameness, you see, are not the selfsame thing—one’s sighs can’t always fit all, after all—and so here I am, outfitted with a roomy new me—though this latest me, I might add, is one that I think I can learn to be comfortable with, one that I would like to get to know a bit—and so I think I will do just that, here in the o’erabundant calm of Emporia, where I can richly participate in all its furious inactivity—woman is an island, of course, but at the moment I genuinely seem to be in the market for some time for myself—or, rather, for developing a species of self that knows how to negotiate with that ole tyranny of time…

—Not that my time with Chomsky wasn’t big-time boffo, of course—for it was, it certainly was—and it will continue to be for as long as I have morphemes in me to describe it—after all, the man is one of our national treasures—a ferocious fighter for pure right—although most of the folks he’s fighting for will never know it—though

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