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VOLUME 1 — NUMBER 2.5 |
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Essays They smile, and their sound fills the room, rising toward the ceiling as other drummers join, reaching inside the beat — hands matching hands, lines between lines, chatter between chatter, voices between voices. It was like a scene from the movie Caddyshack; my normally level-headed spouse would no sooner claim victory over these maddening, bulb-eating critters and, lo and behold, they would reappear somewhere else nearby — and sneer at him. It’d be like winning a marathon only to find out that your prize is no ribbon, no medal, but instead it’s to run a bigger, meaner marathon. One that requires you to learn how to run differently, backward perhaps, or maybe on rocket skates. It was the sea that gave him one of his desks in Isla Negra: a simple wooden board, where he placed a bronze sculpture of the hand of his last lover, Matilde. |
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