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Mar. 25th, 2007 04:39 amNearing the end of The Crossing. The Border Trilogy feels increasingly like The Faerie Queene to me. All the different quests for justice, the American boys' and the Mexicans' in those great recitals, better even than the landscapes, tense encounters, shocks, humor moments and dreams. And everything bursting with peculiar theologies, wildly incompatible but for their ultimate vagueness. Spenserian to the endcurls of the S's.
In Mexico we lured a seagull into our room with bread but some other gulls saw and suddenly there was a gang of them edging the balcony.
South Carolina feels half Mexican sometimes, because of the dead dogs and cats and the racial class split, blatant corruption and religion and haphazard infrastructure. Unemployed black men sitting on the curb at noon with their hands on their faces, looking at nothing. And the timelessness and heat and beating rains. And new colors and grains to things sifted down this far, some other kind of melt of sky and land. At twenty I lusted most for women a few years older, where something had begun to turn, some run in the texture bespoke a handle. I wonder why. This place, when it doesn't remember to be like all the others, just troubles me now. The crossing, for me, is into NC. Charlotte is already home and cleanliness and cool breezes and justice and Bob Evanses. Julie's best friend said at her Wright State interview that she'd applied around in the South and they said Why? and she said we'd moved down here and they said Why? Oh, reasons. Despite which I stare at the offer papers on the refrigerator and keep not signing and sending them. I'll do it Monday.
In Mexico we lured a seagull into our room with bread but some other gulls saw and suddenly there was a gang of them edging the balcony.
South Carolina feels half Mexican sometimes, because of the dead dogs and cats and the racial class split, blatant corruption and religion and haphazard infrastructure. Unemployed black men sitting on the curb at noon with their hands on their faces, looking at nothing. And the timelessness and heat and beating rains. And new colors and grains to things sifted down this far, some other kind of melt of sky and land. At twenty I lusted most for women a few years older, where something had begun to turn, some run in the texture bespoke a handle. I wonder why. This place, when it doesn't remember to be like all the others, just troubles me now. The crossing, for me, is into NC. Charlotte is already home and cleanliness and cool breezes and justice and Bob Evanses. Julie's best friend said at her Wright State interview that she'd applied around in the South and they said Why? and she said we'd moved down here and they said Why? Oh, reasons. Despite which I stare at the offer papers on the refrigerator and keep not signing and sending them. I'll do it Monday.
