jennifer egan

Ted stepped toward the relief. He felt as if he'd walked inside it, so completely did it enclose and affect him. It was the moment before Eurydice must descend to the underworld a second time, when she and Orpheus are saying good-bye. What moved Ted, mashed some delicate glassware in his chest, was the quiet of their interaction, the absence of drama or tears as they gazed at each other, touching gently. He sensed between them an understanding too deep to articulate: the unspeakable knowledge that everything is lost.

"The pause makes you think the song will end.  

And then the song isn't really over, 

so you're relieved.  But then 

the song does actually end, because 

every song ends, obviously, and 

THAT. TIME. THE. END. IS. FOR. REAL."

The whole book is worth it, but if you're pressed for time, 176-251.  It's the first time a PowerPoint made me feel so many different things. 

As we drove up the N2, Linda pointed out the different shades of green that made up the landscape. I said mmhmm and nodded in acknowledgment, continuing to stare out the window. I had been enjoying the neon and pine and jade and moss as well.

Matthias sped up and the colors began to blur. My mind drifted to David and how his brows always furrowed when he was in the thick of one of his drawings. He would hold two or three crayons in one hand, and furiously color with the other. The craggy lines of a sailboat, the different blues used for swirling waves, an invasion of lightning bolts in an otherwise empty sky - these were the details that made his pictures alive, different, full of emotion, entirely his.

I last saw David four years ago, so he is now eleven. He would have drawn everything I've seen here and since last December so beautifully. I picture him insisting that we stop the car, running out looking around crouching down touching this and that - examining the big and small things with awe and curiosity.

Jim Carroll

Little kids shoot marbles
where the branches break the sun
into graceful shafts of light
I just want to be pure

I went to the SA National Gallery today and fell in love with their current exhibit: The Indian in DRUM Magazine. The photographs, taken from the archives of DRUM, depict Indian golfers, political activists, daredevils, pinup girls, and gangsters (to name a few) in underworlds, shantytowns, soccer fields, and bohemian jazz clubs. The purpose is to confront stereotypes of the Indian community in South Africa, who arrived as indentured laborers in the 1860s, by showing them to be more than just rich minority shopkeepers.

No pictures were allowed and they weren't selling any prints, so I had to scrounge up a couple from the Internet. These aren't my favorites (Amaranee Naidoo, The Flower Seller, and Indian Women Take to Booze! were), but they'll have to suffice for now.

Sonny Pillay author of Shadow People, Pumpy's Jazz/Goodwill Lounge, Crimson League/Salot Gang fighting for taxi kingship, Dr. Yusuf Dadoo, Amaranee Naidoo and Tommy Chetty riding the Wall of Death, Sewsunker "Papwa" Sewgolum the two-time winner of the Natal Open and three-time winner of the Dutch open who took tea in his car because only whites were allowed in the tournament clubhouse, Links Padayachee and Juggie Naidoo, Benny Singh with his "black" boxing, Mother India, Runya Naidoo and Violet La Tange who conquered ballroom dancing, and both flower sellers - I'll remember.