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656 pages, Paperback
First published October 27, 2015
Suddenly, there she stood. Off to the west side of the fountain where the cement met the grass. Under the still dusky sky, the lamps flickered around the fountain area, and the fireworks' black smoke disseminated above the Plexiglas booth like a papal signal, a distant goddess in a long leopard skin coat and a big tan hat and oversize round sunglasses. Greta.
No sound. No smell. No taste. No touch. No image. No words. His father's physical legacy: empty space and a name. He was Moses, son of Hannah and Malcolm, the father who had died in his heart in 1961. His struggle, before he consciously knew it, was to find expression for the inexpressible, the pain of a mother's tears, and the blunted scream of loss that an abandoned child with no words feels when grasping for answers.
After incubating in Orient, I realized I had to leave or become an erased soul inside a physical shape pantomiming the motions of life.
The bicentennial sissy boom-bah God Bless America blitzkrieg and the anti-rah-rah blather of the downtown scene made me almost want to be... French.
Some people need to leave home to escape war. Some need to leave to see war. In the end, no one ever really leaves home and you're always at war. You're only rearranging the furniture.