A letter to F

Dear F

Yesterday I found out that silence does not exist.
Everything is sound. Every movement ends in sound – not necessarily noise – a frequent stringing together of invisible waves. Time moves on with them.

Been reading all week, analysing a space in Susan Howe’s poetry which goes beyond emptiness. Maybe blank pages are not empty either, only obscure like you.

In her latest book she writes about the death of her husband. Death pretends to be empty but it’s not. A-void.

Haven’t been writing for almost a week and it scares me I might take over Howe’s style – or invisibility.

My mother didn’t say anything about her card for today’s Mother’s Day. I know she got it, I know she was emotionally overwhelmed – because my father told me. Confessions. I didn’t expect them anyway.

The library is open until 3am these days – not a final refuge for silence but an attempt that does not make me feel as weird as when I go down to the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral every week – offering a quietness which weighs each of your breaths & preparing you for more than just what lies beyond tomorrow.

With my love, J

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.