L A T E R she would remember t he woman in the muskrat coat: how she smiled on the snowy street shining gold in the late-day sun , a sleepy puppy in her arms. And later she would remember the hot-powder scent of the movie projector, and the raspy whir of machinery spinning images she couldn’t remember seeing for herself but were captured when they got the dog for Christmas. (See? There’s the tree, in the parlor, a Daddy-tall evergreen dripping silvery strips around obese raindrops in pine-needle grottos glowing blue or red or yellow.) But that would be later. In the beginning she didn’t know where she was or when she was or what she was or who she was or that she was or that there was anything like a beginning. Her life was one thing after the other. Not in the meaning of a parade of trials and troubles and travesties. In the meaning of whatever was in front of her, or beside her or in the room with her. ...
Welcome to the workshop! No hype. No glitz. No trying to impress. Just stuff. And word-flinging. Lots of word-flinging. Beware of falling excerpts.