Writing the Silences by Ebenkamp Paul Hillman Brenda Moore Richard O

Author:Ebenkamp, Paul, Hillman, Brenda, Moore, Richard O.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of California Press
Published: 2012-01-23T05:00:00+00:00

4.

You mean that? History? This traffic is history, it’s speed. Forget about crossing the street, you’ll get run over, like how far can the slow-pitch softball of sentience reach? Come on now! Over the plate, pretend you can bash it into realms of unbeing, it’s a game mon frère, the pitch and the hit must coexist, it’s in the rules, and it’s your only chance of making do, but remember, be careful where you’re pointing, there may be words hidden in corners, birds of a sort in any weather, morning may find that “you” did it, the rib-bitt merely of a literary frog. Each generation a box with all the pieces is handed down. Spread out on the table under lamp light each year the picture has more holes in it, don’t look under the bed, can you imagine anyone mothering you with your history? Suppose you were to blow the whistle, spill the beans, would anyone applaud, could anyone bear to have your name in gold on the party list? That’s just the way it goes, and you’ll miss those fat pitches or look the other way as a strike sails by. It’s the rules again, stupid (lie and let lie), and all that slamming, bamming, and, yes, breath-held hullabaloo of love is history’s traffic come to run you down. As if history is apart from something you did, you son of a bitch. Too late now for any midcourse corrections, midtown erections, the skyline is too crowded, besides, you’d never make it through the maze to a deconstruction permit. “Waltz . . . Ladies and Gentlemen, if you please” . . . the Viennese, that waltz of history, gentility’s fiction and reflection from the polished ballroom floor. Should the conscience of the race belong to women? Some man is always cutting in and cries of conscience, conscience in the night are, to most ears, silent, silent as the great owl’s flight. The kill is never clean, but if you must know, little brother, know that only you can claim that nature or an owl can care. Invention is your signature, your worth, the bliss of nature is anything but that, no pastures where poets may safely graze or kill, believe in Holy Name and Cause. That’s a nasty trick you have Saint Augustine, hysterical logician, “from weakness to habit to necessity.” But, seriously speaking, your subscription will expire in three months, so respond, respond, please mail now. Yes. Be an early bird and save.

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