The Boatmen Sing
We are living, as it were, at the membrane of metaphor and memory . In fugitive anticipation of the boatmen's songs, of arrivannce , hotel stationery and the daily crossword. Unsurprisingly, my writing is an act of infidelity- I skim and skip my way around your words, through your memories and moments of being, and hold myself accountable for their suspension . As a mnesic trace...as remnants for my part of the world, where the aromas of coffee, slow-cooked curries, and cinnamon from the avenues and alleyways of your home town are a contested inheritance. An inheritance of loss, almost; the affective residue of the unsalvageable past kept alive by the cities they inhabited in their displaced condition. 4:47 am. Signs of habitation behind the walls of homes, the yellow highlights and orange accents along the corridors of apartment blocks seep into a bluegrass soundtrack for the town's sleepless. Ours was a world of rooftops and love songs, three-act plays, and neon food cou...