2005-06-12 - 6:50 p.m.
And I'm lying on my bed, thinking, how have I not read Annie Dillard's "An American Childhood" before now? Because it's just beautiful and the interior life of the child in that book is so rich. I'm thinking, did I have so many colors, so many textures in my head as a kid? And, no, not like that, and I'm jealous because I want to re-do it now. She cracks open rocks and cracks open rocks and inside is a thought I've never thought before, a different one on every page. And she's rich and privileged and never really reckons with it but I never, not once, despised her for it. She's probably unbearable in real life; they usually are. It's like payment for writing such simple, clear sentences that ring so true they burn. I don't know. The metaphors abound with this one. If I could, I'd use it as a pillow. Of course, the way my dreams go, I probably already do.
I wish I could dunk a basketball. I dream of this. For a guy who's spent years trying to deny that sports and balls and competition matter at all, I spend a lot of time doing all of these same things in my head. I dream of jumping off one foot and rising, rising until I'm moving laterally through the air, the ball secure in my hand, over my head like the Statue of Liberty holds her torch, a given thing, and coming down at just the moment so that I grab the rim and it catches my weight, swinging my body like a pendulum, me letting go at the moment gravity dictates, coming down squarely on both feet. It's about fluidity, I suspect, the dream. And power, of course, the power of rising above everyone else and them watching as I do the thing they can't do anything about. Fluid power. A dancing potter; a loping teacher, maybe.0 comments so far