After Opthamologist, Drive-In for a Strawberry Malted
The urge to write curdles in me sometimes. I stare at the screen or my hands or I am biting my lip so hard my eyes water but the only movement I experience is the quiver of static. As many times as I push on my nerves, they just push back, like a self-healing polymer.
All changes are difficult: bearning into existence (words or children, I imagine, are similar to spring), reaching the limits of being (and therefore ceasing all forward motion), conversion of the foreign to the intimate (lovers not excepted), relocation of the internal organs (as from surgery or growing taller), the energy of activation (and, usually, the procurement of a catalyst).
Today’s attraction to the parenthetical comes from reading a wonderful book called Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl. I took it from my sister’s bookshelf on my last visit to her slope-ceilinged attic apartment. She said, “Yeah, it’s good. The narrator is very self-aware, too self-aware, like annoyingly self-aware, so a lot of people are like, ‘I don’t like it; she’s too young to be like that,’ but I’m like, ‘Yeah, she’s just like my sister.'” It made me read the book, anyway. And I love the book. But beyond its being a novel, I must now read it as a review of my sister’s critical analysis of me. Or maybe that would only lead to what I already know, which is that in family, there is much blindness and many treacherous slopes.
Enjoy the typing sounds.