Concerning the Story I Wrote About the Story I Read


I wanted to understand why the first juncture was not the real juncture.I wanted to
know why a false juncture even existed. And I wanted to know why “existed” had such a
phony ring to it. I wanted to know a lot of things and a lot of things were not
forthcoming, but some things were, and they were not the things that explained certain
other things like when to expect a valid juncture.
If you believe it, sometimes that makes it true, so I started believing in junctures.
So I guess I experienced one. I mean I believe I had one transition me. So I experienced
getting from one thing to another. So I could go on. I could continue with a clear sense of
the new direction being different from the old direction, which wasn’t a bad direction,
just, well, “old.”
So I closed the door.
Meaning I wanted to go outside, but another juncture occurred, and I didn’t.
It was cold out there, but I still wanted to go.
Meaning, even at that age, I recognized the urge to squeeze when caressing a
lover’s throat, and I wanted to. As I squeezed into her I mean, as she tightened her body’s
grip on me. I was thinking about the future that hadn’t happened yet, but that I was
already beginning to understand.
So I didn’t go outside.
Where it was raining. Where the sun was.
How do you say “wait” the way water does, or sunshine?
Because I want you to imagine it. Like I did, before it happened.
I want you to be me the way I used to be.
And I want you to save me from an early demise. Which hasn’t happened yet, of
course, but could if what I’m asking isn’t impossible.
Notice I haven’t given you a description of the exceedingly ordinary suburban
house in which the “real” juncture may or may not have occurred. Notice I haven’t
described the rain. Notice the contradictory insertion of the symbolic optimism of green
hillsides in the ordinary town. Now try to imagine the young girl’s secret words for
desire. Notice the boy’s volley of verbal trophies disguised as accusations. Listen to them
mouthing the same words, the ones they can’t use with each other yet. Notice nature’s
defiant green thrust through the carcass of a robin.
Meaning I had decided to stay inside, but a juncture occurred.
So I went outside, and you were there.
Which we didn’t fully understand yet but sort of, and it was very dangerous after
the juncture.
Because now this involved at least two of us.
Because one of us might have something to say.
Because it wasn’t obvious which one.

Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.

(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)

Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.

Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.