extracts the first word just been published in the journal beautiful N 4728 (No. 19, January 2011)
Extracts
The visit to the floor, writing is an adventure each time singular. She also joined the common experience. These texts are pits, pebbles on path. Mr. Seguin's goat had eaten up every story, but Tom Thumb sowed the words that would save.
Open the book images. Obstacle: the signs. No meaning, no colors, no identifiable forms, yet they carried the story, I had been told. Properly aligned, rhythmic, regular. Impenetrable. I touched the letters, followed the black. The other read, absorbed. There was something to dip into the pages.
I walked on the floor. Or on the floor or on carpet or grass. The soil had more than the sky. The world was changed on the soles of the feet. Warm, soft sand crashed except when a shell fragment wounded. It was not serious, the blood loses its color in the sea Every step closer waves. Not to be
being nobody. ... I get to meet children who are struggling to live with them themselves and with others. It is a long patience and deep emotion to see them born to their word.
Today, I work with him. He does not know who he is. He has five years but that's me know. Him living among monsters. It builds machines to destroy them. They say he is mad but he has his reasons. It does not concern me, as if afraid to see me in the monster. He keeps talking, without worrying to be heard. I listen. I do not lose confidence, the floor is possible.
In M, there are wolf teeth. He scribbles the S, the snake will not jump on the sheet. He writes to a pulp. The words are glued not to fall into holes. Small separations between friends. Cut paper, pounded strokes. Go slowly. Rhymes of the night. Drop one hand just before entering. Good day to you. Points anywhere on the page, are eyes. At the table, it can delete them. Start new arrows. Write three loves in mamaman. It retains some bits of history. One day he will read.
He too has come for years but is now a teenager and he said nobody knows anything. .
He wanted to become the king lives. He did not do.
He confused yesterday and tomorrow and most things. He was a baker. Then he became half-ghost, half human, which was an improvement. At school, there were traps. Letters to the table can be disguised. He just heard some voices and banging his head when there was a fly in her hair. He did not understand, we thought it silly, but he was suspicious of words. He feared being caught in a net girls. When we came to fetch him, he was hiding, one day, no, he stayed, he found another idea: pretend to be another child. Pretending. He was surprised to get better. Talking was good, although still said the word otherwise. He began to make rebus of deadlock. First, it was empty, after it was solutions. There was less attendance spies. He learned unabated all the rules, practices, codes and mathematical signs. Deeply moved to have managed to be welcomed into a small band. Before, he says, I closed the door. Now, once I open it.
I spend a little time with my vortices that arise ever, Stray propelled by the wind talkers whose words go astray, the silent listening nothing, crying vote broken, discordant, and praying to some unknown god. I tame the distrustful Indians. They told me based on my own wildness. I meet people who ignore me and I do not mind, because the moment I meet all other catches.