Redness that's both linked and operative: mythologically unitary, but actually not contained. I refer you to the arteries and veins and also the valves which, on Miss Libby's echocardiogram, resembled baskets of kelp. Miss Libby is no longer with
us. The heart fails. Perhaps it is better not to pick up with another human being. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and raspberry
jam for breakfast? No. The heart is an open system. The heart is
real. I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want another
dog. I want red things: What moves my
blood. Writing. I want the book to come.
What was the name of that
French film? The one with Beatrice Dalle riding a
dog sleigh at the end? I loved that shot where the girl's heart was lying next to her, wrapped in a T-shirt, throbbing in the snow. Did I really see that? I always like writing afterwards, but then I write
something new. I wish I still had the soundtrack to Betty Blue.