I invoke the rails of Kerouac’s Mexico to bend into gravity and unfold my life. I bombard anguish with the gray of sorcery, and yet it continues to be a value I need. The massive puzzle of life thickens. Our talk swirls about it, just before dinner, and my arugula salad. Which has tiny walnuts in it. For example, mosquitos pull my memory of Minnesota across a lake of inner imagining. I can smell it. It smells of raw sienna. It smells of bone black and disparagement and asparagus. It smells of dirt. It smells of the sorcery of the hothouse. What is not a sorcery? Anyone involved in the business of putting words to paper knows what it is to grasp the smell of structure and fill it with theatre and sympathy.
It is the responsibility of speech, which is a form of color. This is why the parlor is called a parlor, and a parliament is a place for guano and radar.
The folds and wrinkles of the elephant testify to the shaping influence of gravity.