Thoughts is a novel about a young, dreamy boy who leaves one day, taking to flight,
drops everything in holy hope of becoming a writer in search of America today, while
all the time digging everything that goes on across a strange, episodic continent.
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Inside the small convenient store a divergent world of phosophorescence separates
grocery store loneliness from pure night. What is it that excites so much to see the racked
bones of a tormented woman dragging her frayed dress against the dusty floor while
stepping up to the counter with a loaf of bread and cheese? Why all of a sudden this sudden
gust of inspiration? Why this elation leading to a mystical palpation of the heart,
if it is not the fecund image of woman in all her glory?
In back of the store a beautiful Haitian woman is singing a hymn and cradling a carton of
eggs in her lovely brown arms as her sandals go shush, shush, shush against the sandy
floor. Looking at all of this it is enough to incite the world to madness, not insanity but
a joyful madness, one which the Greeks knew. Looking over my shoulder, an elderly
woman with crescent lines woven between her cheeks has lost herself amongst the
cannisters of dried milk. I throw back my head thinking, "hallelujah," grabbing a box of
powdered detergent and a great, big jug of red wine. In the back of the store the Haitain
woman is singing a lovely hymn about the newborn baby Jesus. Casually I walk up to
front of the store. Standing in line in front of me a sorrowful creature premature in age,
knotted in hair and scarred about the elbows, stands dreamily staring at the flourescent,
orange clock above the bald clerk's head. She struggles jostling an armful of items onto the
counter. These consist of diapers, Vaseline, tomato soup, hemorrhoidal cream, canned
peaches, sanitary napkins and a box of dried potato flakes. Looking at this strange,
bewildering creature one was given a glimpse into the tremendous meaning of
endurance. Standing there in a daze, I pictured the household that awaited her. I
could see her leaning into a greasy hamper as a baby cried violently in a soiled diaper
just a few feet away.
Now digging through her purse she has the fixed countenance of an automaton while
staring down. Like a zombie her course is straightforward, and I realize as she digs for a
few loose coins to make up the difference, I realize the strength apparent in woman.
All at once this strange epiphany hits me knocking me back into my daze. Looking upon
this poor woman one realized how confoundedly hopeless the world really is, yet the
strange contentment and bliss that follows is sublime. It is incredible to see how woman
carries herself in the face of such wild futility and despair. It is absolutely foolish to
believe that man will ever have the capacity to endure the way a woman endures. Only
in our women are we next to God. The rest of us are just slobs creating drama which
unfolds all over and wide across the deep American night.