I loved reading this - it has that dream-like, alone-time interior-ness, which I think I am always looking for in my reading. There were two maybe three pieces which I liked less, the last two, both of which had more of a set theme quality and one about Mary - I'm guessing she was a slave, from her experiences and it is set out in a play-type format with "Int" for Introduction or Interior and then "Ext" which I thought maybe exeunt and then decided must be Exterior - but I don't mind this vagueness, guess-type work that is needed - or not, depending on the reader.
Here are a few of my favourite bits - this is from - The Beak of a Bird:
After that conversation, I think we both needed a break from each other. I spent a whole day reading a book in my kitchen. I knew I would never be able to talk to anyone about it. I washed the dishes. While I was doing that, I finished the conversation in my mind that I had had with Clarice.
"What were you doing there on the farm?" she asked me.
"I had gone there because of the ocean. Also, I am an only child."
"What does being an only child have to do with it?"
"You find you must do what you want."
"Do you? I don't know very much about only children."
"We're very aware of everything. And also sometimes afraid."
I made myself stop the conversation. I sat down at the table and started reading again so that the words I read would fill my mind.
I always find this introspective style of writing very beautiful and moving. I also feel that it speaks a truth about experiences we all have, but rarely share in any form - whether with friends, or lovers, in conversations, or in fact in writing.
The next extract is from - The Beating of My Heart - and follows the one about Mary - and is I think connected. But, this narrative has an historical setting focussing on a woman, who is without home or food - and as you will see suddenly flicks to a modern point of view, of someone playing a part. I felt as if all the pieces were connected to each other, but I also liked the dissociation and the vague associations.
He is the only one in his family who has seen this place and its creatures. From the light of his lantern he crosses the land that rises in front of him. In a small town someone gives him a gold watch he would like to refuse, but he takes it. Now he has two things to hold. I'm hungry because I haven't eaten in weeks. Something inside me is doubling over. I'm all alone now, but this is the way I wanted it.
Time opens up and something is wrong. The wind blows in the opposite direction. The sky is a strange color. Even my voice sounds like someone who hasn't spoken in a long time.
When I rehearse I don't have to memorize my lines. The auditorium holds my thoughts and all I have to do is step into them. I am getting close and closer to something, but I don't know what it is. Only that it is there. On my dress. In the air. When it is not my turn to be on stage I sit in the wings, and think, and sew.
It's as if the person slips between past and present, and unexpectedly her "character" life is more real than her present life. I love it.
And this is from the first, little bit of a story - A Threadless Way:
When I first moved here, I lived in a friend's room in a loft. I had never lived in loft before, and it was strange to do so in such a quiet place. Downtown was unlike any downtown I had ever been in: it's emptiness surprised me, but it was empty only of certain kinds of people. They were around, but they lived on the sidewalk and in tents. And stores and businesses existed, but not the kind tourists want to shop at. The month - August- was hot, the way I like weather to be, and in the evenings when it cooled down I rode my bike in the neighborhoods next to mine, and sometimes to a cornfield that someone had planted nearby. I would get off my bike and look at the plants, at the cobs of corn hidden in their pale green husks. I liked that the field was there, with the city's buildings so close to it. I liked that it was there.
Again, I find this writing so atmospheric. It reminds me intensely of lull periods in my own life, when I had time to wander in a city and find odd, untended places, with no-one, just some plants and insects and the quiet. For me, it's really beautiful writing.