Читать книгу The Collector of Bodies - Diane Glancy - Страница 9

1.

How do you begin a story?

You face the silence so dense the words are magnetified metal filings, but you begin to pry.

You put both feet on the floor you sit in a chair you open your mouth. You speak to the story as if it were already there. You remember a stray cat who came around and you left the door ajar and you saw him while you were at your desk from the corner of your eye he walked past the door one way then another and soon he jumped on your desk scaring you both but he was there and you reached out once and once again and soon he let you touch his head.

2.

No, you don’t offer the story a corral or even the pasture.

You offer it the whole continent.

You hear a buzz, a hum, which is the clump that forms before a word.

You hear the word that comes from the hum.

Then others follow.

They stand together, shivering.

You separate the words from one another.

They won’t want to at first though some come forward

to stand next to other words.

They learn to adapt, move over, and change in relation to others.

That’s how story is a process of learning how to trust before you hear.

A phenomenon that nothing longs for something more than something longs for nothing.

3.

Your words travel the air-space between others, and there is a hereness, a connection, and soon your one voice is a cropduster that turns into a Concord when you see it’s a matter of magnitude

say the prairie air-corridor at full amp.