The author of this stalwart yet woefully scattershot blog will be enjoying the company of various and temporary North Americans on a journey by rail for the next couple of days. This uprooting from the warm and soothing winds of the Puget Sound may produce in the author a type of “displacement trauma” rendering him functionless, unable to string together sentences of quasi-meaningful bavardage, let alone do anything but weep for visions of willowy branches and floating moss, and auditory longings for the sound of water lapping upon boat edges.
Yet should inspiration be found in the night coursing through America’s blast-capped Qinghai, new prose constructions (not to be confused with mental edifices) may indeed be manifested. Worshiping at the altar of locomotive power, feet awash in iron shavings, recalling again the hum of steel upon steel and the East, the keyboardist may in fact pick up a pen, slash at a yellow page, thicken it all with blue ink evocative of the legion of khaki-clad Tokyo censors of a bygone era. Seeking an isolation within and without various linguistic bubbles, and checking the seals on various and multiplying plots, he will seek the edges of the present reality in the American West, which is in fact his East. That is, should the locomotive prove worthy, and provided that America is still all there.
Does movement create a stoppage or unstop blockage? I suppose we will see.