What do I know about this work? Plenty and not enough.
I know that it is made up of fragments. Pulses of feeling, one right after another. You won't open the book and see a wall of black ink engulfing your eyes, a sort of sensory violence. No—there will be white space. They say the music happens there, hides there. After all, I find myself asking, wasn't our earliest literature poetry? Does that not have significance? Something breathes in the pauses. Give it room.
I know that it is a bridge between forms. Essay, poetry, memoir—with a little of the 140 character freshness and raw vigor of the age of confession—why not? I can't say why but I know this for a fact: this work wants to live as a transgression of boundaries.
And I know that it traffics in big questions, disparate ones. It will not give me an easy time. Trauma, creativity, listening, love, love for the self and in relationship. They all orbit, in a finely spun galaxy, the central theme of transfiguration of what's within. Lead into gold. The only thing I've devoted myself to with lasting, ongoing commitment, the project of my life. I claim no answers but brim with observations.
Can I tell you what I see in my inner landscape without devolving into confession? This is the question that makes me want to peer over the edge of the cliff with an uncertain thrill.
Find the clues.