Wednesday, March 07, 2012


Then why do I write stories like eroded holes?
                                                  —Camille Roy

Sometimes it’s all about the context.  Other times
it’s all about the game.  Either way, biography
is always fiction.  Each composite mask is, naturally,
impossible to control or to define, particularly by its
adorner, its “owner” (its purported “creator”).  This is
not only eureka but religion (I speak personally, through
the holes in my own).  If HONESTY is the utmost (yet
impossible) goal, we can gush (with humility!) at
each step forward, each tiny evolution toward the
(unachievable) reconciliation of our red interiors with
our visible exteriors.  My truth is a shambles (a scene
or condition of complete disorder or ruin; a great clutter
or jumble; a total mess; a slaughterhouse).  Truth can be
proactively discovered, can be accidentally stumbled upon,
can be purchased for a sum, can arrive piped innocuously
through a soundsystem in a mall or a building elevator,
can be thrown at you with the intention to cause injury,
can breathe heavily at you during a suspenseful dream,
can be delivered by a mailman, or can land on your
shoulder like a bird – can comfort you or freak you out.
No delivery method should be judged harshly.  This is a
nerve-clustered masquerade.  Awareness is imperative.
Soundly seek the holes in your environment (it’s good
practice to vary your settings with an over-achieving
frequency); approach each with equal amounts of
caution and optimism, pausing to experience its
vibration (a hole’s ‘fingerprint,’ if you will).