Friday and the rain is steady. Smudge of red brake lights, and the sun not nearly risen. I think of Katherine and Alex, snug. They'll be up soon, and they'll wonder at my not being there. Routine will resume with its comforts, and off to school. The radio tells of Jack Kerouac, ti Jean, born in Lowell et chez lui on parle a type of French Joual. English was school language, open door and the road ... but in Mexico
On the Road was
Sur le Chemin, a manuscript of mishearing
.
So here I sit, garage, head full of misremembered French and a sister in Lowell whose baby is coming. She was supposed to learn Spanish but her father is dead. Here I sit, office, and I wonder about this Latin account and its murders and the record in Hebrew. Morning not silent but grey.
Chanson de Roland has never found its English beauty. I asked my student to translate Roland's death into poetry. She would have preferred Chinese or Japanese but the poem would have been lost to me. I've pinned her "he sees a split self" to my wall, next to Alex's vision of God's breath and earth still dark.
