(I didn't write any notes for this piece of media. Foolish me!)
★★★★★
(I didn't write any notes for this piece of media. Foolish me!)
★★★★★
“What if the cat wants in when we’re gone?” he asks. There is no cat, like there is no raven, like there is no one-eyed dog. But she knows the right answer.
“You carved him a door.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
He knows the name of the moment to come, like the baby knew the name of the crow. To die is to simply remember how to die.
Meaning is like music; it catches and is carried. It returns. Refrains, phrases, the names of passing boats. Stuck in my head, it’s stuck in my head. The way stories fasten themselves to words, words fasten themselves to vulnerable rhythms, impressionable tunes. Ann is skilled in the archaeology of carried music. It holds on like fear, like love.
