– ANAKANA SCHOFIELD –
my arm, up and down, chop, chop, lay it out for him like the hard lumps of resistant sausage it is. No, no, no, it’s not that. It’s (chop) early childhood loss, (chop) watching man get put into hole in the ground, (chop) (him: who? Me: my father), (extra chop cos interrupted) thanatophobia, (chop) the process is death anxiety, every time I write I am buried, it’s reburial, wham, wham, wham.
But you claw your way out? No. I don’t. It’s not that active, more that some vague blip in the earth probably caused by fracking in Alaska or a frisky wolf merely affords a pin-sized entry point for air. Small oxygen.
‘It reminds me of a story . . .’ and he’s off. See, fiction absolves.
BURIAL BY PROCESS: DISPOSAL
These are the dull mechanics. The mechanics of disposal whether it’s onto the page or beneath the soil, there’s still a casting off. Polite form involves ritual. Publishing is a ritual, if you are afforded this privilege or trial (perspective depending).
It seems again there is a further replication that happens.
There’s the ritual of writing. I suppose it’s a utilitarian act of going to work. The difference is with