It’d’ve been a shame for me to say anything but thank you, and even that I tried to pass by way of your man—Ted? Tod?—I’m sorry, I only heard his name by eavesdropping. He seemed patient, generous. A good rush to his face.
I waited thinking I’d buy your book. Wanting to buy your book for someone else so that I could read it; living with that someone else. She also has a good rush to the face. She’s sleepier than your T(_)d, but then, I know her better.
I walked out of the Folio Athenaeum and kept the strap of my helmet on (I didn’t get on my bike—in part the hills, in part the itch not to let go of the sensation of something, some odd-spirit bubble that was (sad, in-power, overwhelmed)). It was an incredible sensation; the only action it demanded was go back go back. I felt it once when I was in Colorado, leaving that same girl I mentioned to walk home, also up a hill, also with a bike, also in the dark. Then, I took a flex-weave scarf, tied it tight around my head to knot my resolve, and rode back to find her;—now she is at home, so I set back across the city to find her, top-full of what Perillo I could take in, a sponge.
A fellow I walked past held two fingers to his mouth, tight together, miming for a smoke; I was oozing so much I didn’t get back at him. He mistook my silence for man offput, made quick move to remedy by pointing out he was asking for a cigarette, not other associate vulgarities; it was dark; I took no offense.
I won’t downplay a certain universal halving. I got on my bike, no light for him or me, and burned until I got here, home, to try to get this out to you.
I told Alyssa that I wanted to buy your book for her. I took a couple of free books instead—Robert Hughes, The Shock of the New, noteworthy. The other one’s a biography. I hoped it was Nabokov’s shorts. ENH, the noise of a buzzer. Your book looked incredible from both chances I got to glance—the interior typography, the long poems.
I heard the fellow with the hat talking about never looking at crows the same. I wondered if he meant never think about men the same.
If he remembered “Jack in the Box dumpster.”
Even as an audience, we rank ourselves, grossly.
Your long piece, the bit on sound—I keep thinking Dorey or Doreen or—well, I could as easily look it up but I’m here, not there. Foley. That was fire, to me. The rumble through each section, from cinema to sex to cheek to the silent hikes—the other life I wonder at. That was incredible. Approachable; layered. Man. Thank you, Lucia.
I guess what I started with was right, and maybe six seconds could’ve done already what I tried to do here, but thank you. It was wonderful to hear you, and when we get past the car loans and I find you reading somewhere else, I’ll buy a book properly.
One response to “A Thanks, Lucia Perillo”
Such an NF conceit. Huzz.