in (my) this neighborhood pt. 21

She made an earnest effort before heading to the southern lands again—her place of birth. She practiced her mother tongue assiduously—reading, writing, spewing words into the empty air…
She thought miscommunication was a vital part of the misunderstandings—the inability to be heard and understood clearly must be the at the heart of the fissures…
Everything appeared dream-like, limned, by a hyperreal light in her revised vision—a cathode moon nimbus, slightly othered…
Moments of appalling beauty tempered by the jarring juxtapositions of what she knew from childhood…
With nightmare visions which set her at ease in her elegant discontinuities—she was used to nothing making sense. These visions sprang forth from nothing she had ever witnessed…
Despite the ravages of the new, one thing remained constant—it was here 510 years ago that the first Spaniard, Ponce de Leon, enetered the Miami River. Nothing has been the same since—not even the mother tongue.

What I’m Reading:

“Because people are a nightmare. Any system predicated on the idea of innate human decency is a joke. We’re proving that now, as we have been for centuries. That hatred, that bigotry, that superstition, that deep, deep longing for petty vengeance: I can’t step outside of that. It’s in me and always has been. What you want, white man?”

— Jonathan Dee / Sugar Street

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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