“I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.”
This is a collection of words that take me away, that pull my strings and play them better than a violinist.
A conversation with Sandra is like swimming in a Pollock painting: words, expressions and hands flutter and mix, raw and brilliant. She makes speech purely physical. I lose the meaning of her sentences and throw myself into the storm of her lips.
You cut up a thing that’s alive and beautiful to find out how it’s alive and why it’s beautiful, and before you know it, it’s neither of those things, and you’re standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.