Remembering Velamo

Stephen Kuusisto, Letters to Borges


I am walking in circles. I erase this sentence. It’s better to be clever. Perhaps I should bring a talking animal into this? You see I didn’t erase it. You see how convoluted narration—any—really is? My mother died today, or was it yesterday? It doesn’t matter, the old country is dead.

Bring on the talking crow. Or the hundred year old monk I met in the sauna whose sweat smelled of strawberries. The sighs of a centenary holy man—who was celebrating his birthday in a steam bath, they are ‘of or pertaining to’ the talking animal. I left that sauna wiser.

I’d no language for the matter. Time wasn’t reliable. My Merleau-Ponty wristwatch had stopped. One wished to be shrewd, but it didn’t matter because there, mid-summer, beside a monastery, time had stopped.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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