A Work in progress
Sometimes, waking in the middle of the night, I think What country am I in? And lying very still, as if bivouacked on a cliff edge, fearing that a twitch, a catch of breath may precipitate me into the unknown, I allow my eyes to dilate before trying to make sense of the darkness. At last, the darkness resolves into a rush of shadows like the vortex of some magical road, skyway, or bridge unfurling toward a vanishing point: a punctum of desire, that, if obscure, dangerous, is also uncannily familiar. And it is then, just as on that night so many years ago when they told me I must give up all hope of seeing her, that I decide to run away to Venus.