Part of a writing celebrating seminal anthology of Québecois feminist writing la Théorie: un dimanche (remue-ménage, 1988).
The airlock on the huge lilac mead jug glugs away when it’s just me in the sunny third floor kitchen in Montréal’s North End. Way up from the water. The yarrow is flowering and the sumach berries are almost red enough for lemonade. July.
I text him back, telling him to meet in the shadows of the bleachers where the Major League Baseball stadium used to stand. There’s only the marquee and wall above the old entrance where people came to see games for a few summers in the 1970s.
That old alluvial plain that stretches from the last of the Great Lakes, and sees more than half of the world’s fresh water to the sea. I’m reminded of that scene where the sailors are hanging around the port set with surreal lighting, smoking. He is in town for a week from Berlin.
She wrote: “What is important is anyone’s coming awake and discovering a place, finding in full orbit a spinning globe one can lean over, catch, and jump on. What is important is the moment of opening a life and feeling it touch—with an electric hiss and cry—this speckled mineral sphere, our present world.” The discovery of a place takes time. Some things emerge only with practice.
‡ Published online by Lemonhound.