My mother is allegedly buying a new house at some point, and also getting married. I’d been using one of her rooms as a second storage unit, so in lieu of having anywhere else to be this week, I’m submerged in the logistical complexities of the long-put-off task of, well, figuring out how to move all my stuff to a single location (very millennial, I know).
This entails digging through a lot of unintended remnants. At 14 or 15, I had an inexplicably intense T.S. Eliot phase; I found a marked-up anthology in the back of some drawer that hadn’t been opened in a good decade. Eliot is known to have been something of a garbage human, but this was before that sort of information was so readily accessible, and so in the way things you dig into at that age lodge themselves in your brain I’m stuck with it regardless.
Still, there’s something there in the way he grapples, structurally and thematically, with fragmentation. He frets a lot about time and mortality, excoriating inaction even as he stews in it. Continue reading “Cactus Land”