Coming back to myself after a happy, packed Fairfield residency. Mark off to Merida to teach for the week. Snow filling up the driveway once again--yes, again. And could it be that I actually have the next two weeks to write? Exciting and alarming. My laptop, my desk, and me.
And this song--which has been playing in my head for the last two weeks. If hip hop is officially dead as a genre--as the New York Times wants to claim (outlandishly)--then maybe genres need to die in order for invention to begin. The pressure to please the casual listener is beside the point, and all things are possible once again.
(I should mention that I came to this song through reading Victor LaValle. The title of Mos Def's album is named for Victor's novel The Ecstatic. I cannot imagine a more exciting thing: to see one's book title used for a Mos Def title. I'd settle for-- for-- well, no need to make a corny joke right now.)
Anyway, the goal for the next two weeks: to write some prose that moves like this! The spontaneity captured, the multiple levels of diction and tone. Unexpected turns. Elegance, wit, control. Some loose threads. And the gift of letting the reader/listener in on the secret: the hybrid coming into being.
Some pictures from New Years' Eve--at least my travel back home. A three-ferry night. (The view to St. Edmond's Chapel from the window of my room--that's Fishers Island Sound behind it. An anchor at the ferry terminal in New London. Visceral ropes on the Orient Point Ferry. A passing ferry in the night.)