It’s one of the little disappointments that makes you think about getting away, going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables and taking a room on the square with a landlady whose hands are scored by disinfectant, telling the people you meet that you are from Alaska, and listen to what they have to say about Alaska until you have learned much more about Alaska than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables. I can’t remember being born and no one else can remember it either even the doctor who I met years later at a cocktail party. If squeezed for more information I can remember old clock radios with flipping metal numbers and an entree called Surf and Turf.Īs a way of getting in touch with my origins, every night I set the alarm clock for the time I was born, so that waking up becomes a historical reenactmentĪnd the first thing I do is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it, like when you’re riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn the pattern quickly so you don’t inadvertently resist it. Was “go out long” are what stand out now.
My childhood hasn’t made good material either, mostly being a mulch of white minutes with a few stand out moments: popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer, a certain amount of pride at school everytime they called it “our sun,” and playing football when the only play You see, there is a window by my desk I stare out when I’m stuck, though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write and I don’t know why I keep staring at it. I am trying to get at something and I want to talk very plainly to you so that we are both comforted by the honesty. The one I imagine when I hear the word “hill,” and if the apocalypse turns out to be a world-wide nervous breakdown, if our five billion minds collapse at once, well I’d call that a surprise ending and this hill would still be beautiful, a place I wouldn’t mind dying alone or with you. I know it’s a bad title but I’m giving it to myself as a gift on a day nearly canceled by sunlight when the entire hill is approaching the ideal of Virginia brochured with goldenrod and loblolly and I think “at least I have not woken up with a bloody knife in my hand” by then having absently wandered one hundred yards from the house while still seated in this chair with my eyes closed.
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