| From Station Island ‘I hate how quick I was to know my place. I hate where I was born, hate everything that made me biddable and unforthcoming,’ I mouthed at my half-composed face in the shaving mirror, like somebody drunk in the bathroom during a wild party, lulled and repelled by his own reflection. As if the cairnstone could defy the cairn. As if the eddy could reform the pool. As if a stone swirled under a cascade, eroded and eroding in its bed, could grind itself down to a different core. Then I thought of the tribe whose dances never fail for they keep dancing till they sight the deer. National Portrait Gallery | |
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