Tuesday, April 26, 2011


I spent my day finishing a really difficult transcription of this long, French interview while listening to Balmorhea (c'est belle, comme le roulement des bras de la riviere).

And then all of a sudden I didn't know where the day went, misplacing eight hours like I often misplace my keys or my rings or my thoughts.
I went to look for them, but I gave up and put down the heavy wooden oars because my arms were hurting, and I floated,
my sleeping face pressed down on the planks of the canoe.

I woke up with lines across my face and through my chest. Drifting.
Bags under my eyes, time making them sag like wet reeds washed to shore.

Half the time, I wake up not knowing where I am.

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