Blogging has been difficult for me -- it began as part of promoting my last book, presented as a necessary kind of work in today's writing world. I am not relaxed or comfortable with it at all, and yet drawn to the ease with which it can be done. Half joking, I said to Ivory Madison at Redroom that I wondered what a reclusive Kafka would blog. Or Emily Dickinson for that matter? Great idea! she said. "That can be our-blog-for-a-week." And so I found myself imagining a secret diary. (A blog would be simply beyond him!) The winter darkness of Prague where he lived, the claustrophic feeling of the streets, so narrow and twisted, the tall buildings would all seem to contribute to a sense of malaise.
I imagined papers buried beneath a stack of his books and read by a curious servant girl).
In these cold grey days of winter, I wander through the twisting, dark streets searching for J.
I cannot make it obvious that I am seeking her out or she would toss her blonde mane with contempt, and her steel blue eyes would bore through me. Yesterday I saw her on the corner near the clock tower. I approached, ready to bow and shake her hand, but she abruptly turned and disappeared in the crowd. Whether or not she saw me, I do not know.
At night I hear rats scamper through the walls. They gnaw at the half-rotted timbers of our house. Their teeth are mechanisms to devour substance, as those who are close to me seek to devour mine.
I fear my father, inscrutable man that he is. Perhaps he reads these scribblings...if so, he gives no sign. But these words will die with me. I have instructed Max to burn them. Worthless scraps as they are, may these words leave no trace...
Causes Maria Espinosa Supports
Amnesty International, KPFA, anything to ameliorate homelessness and to make shelters more livable