There is always so much more to read. I find myself in conversations: “No, I haven’t read that.” The prospect is thrilling and worrying. There is that constant niggle – out there could be that one book I wish I had read before putting pen to paper. Each day passes in the pursuit of that text. Words tumble out easy and smooth from the tip my fingers but my mind is in the jungle – hunting. I am reassured with, “But that’s always a constant.” If the quest got over, there was no other material, I would feel defeated. A battle that I willingly lose everyday. I like the manner in which the pile of my books comfort me in the cold. The buffer between the chill and me.
Here: Sitting waiting for Bambi to complete his swimming lesson I am traveling to 1950s Georgia. America – a country I have never visited.
The rain pours, the wind whips the flag, the scrawny brown boy struggles to keep his head above blue waters in the deep end.
There: I read on, she has just birthed on a mattress on the road. Her child unwanted in every way.
Here: I wipe his soaking body and he trembles and shakes, words flood out of his mouth. He is excited. He tells me how it was easy. I squeeze him like a sponge to take the damp out of his bones. He grabs my neck and rubs his nose against mine smiling into my eyes.
In the evening, over cups of tea and tostis, and later wine we talk, “Have you read Althusser?” I shake my head, “I have it on my list.” “You must, really, it will change your views about this, really, I insist.”
Here: It’s dark.
There: I return to Georgia.