1,005 Readings | 1 Rating

The Insemination

In each life there is no moment that determines all others. This is true for the writer, the man with the hole in his heart, just as it is for the full-grown inside him, just as it is for the girl and the deer. This is not to say some moments are more profound, through a tragic loss, a great joy, or a stunning realization, but the writer, try as he might, was unable to isolate such moments, and so he was forced to realize that in his life, there was no moment that determined all others. There were always moments, and where there are moments, there is motion, so he came to understand the periodic intersection of motion and moments as monitions. Monitions point forward and backward at the same time, and the pointer finger, no matter the direction, always trembles with warning. Though he didn’t have complete access to this language of gesture, he somehow came to understand that he was to both leave and stay in the countryside. Though the sky had been rather starless for some time, one night the writer awoke and found himself outside in his bathrobe and boots, staring up at a meteor shower so bright that in order for his eyesight to adjust, he had to hold the sleeve of his pajama shirt up to his eyes and look through the nearly microscopic holes of the fabric. Still drunk from the previous evening, he tried to steady himself, but looking as he was at both the tightly woven knit of his pajamas and at the sperm-like tails of a thousand stars, he lost his footing. He did not call this an accident but rather an insemination of instants sprouting, germinating out before him like a newly paved road into the suburbs.

Posted 07/21/09
Books by Sasha Steensen
Comments (0)