read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

January 6, 2007
I have plunged into the river that is Pynchon’s “Against the Day.” I find myself bobbing along at a clip, slapped by word waves mostly of Greek origin, obstructive, unpronounceable clatterings of consonants like sharp edged rocks in the stream, avoided with a stroke or two of aquatician limbs, gazed at respectfully during the rapid passage through, making note of the shadowy shape-shifting alteration of the wet spot on each obdurate surface. Descending the gradient swiftly, I meet up-stream travelers leaving the comfort of the expansive realms of salt to seek the clean gravel of their birth and death watersheds.