You do not want to read Morrison when there are tendrils of heartache tracing old fault lines in you. Not even those trivial tremors from when you didn’t email me when I thought you would, because if you do, read her then that is, then goodbye and thanks for all the fish because there’s no way you’re going to work out of her words whole.
And there’s no point in reading her really if you aren’t that well-lived we’ll say for properness; well-lived enough to have old fault lines, cracks, musty little secrets and memories that aren’t worth reliving.
Because in the smooth jagged exuberance of her notes lie the adolescent memories of a brazen old city that refuses to become jaded, the secret twist of an unsmiling dead girl’s intentions, the difficult knots of unlove in a maturing marriage the fierce madness of silence in a house where parrots are fed on affection where things lie exactly where they should and not where you expect they should and there’s also the stunning depth of a blank starless city sky and it’s all so casual you could miss it in a blink if not for the sudden sharp shooting sensation of recognition that crackles through old fault lines and fissures.
Thanks Go[ld]phish, I’ve barely begun. [Aptly, because I know you’re chuckling, I have nowhere to link your name.]