By Matt Robinson
This e-book is set reminiscence -- reminiscence as a poetic shape during which refractions of loss, restoration, discovery and identification shape an inventive reshaping of the earlier. In uncooked brushstrokes, Robinson files the sluggish cascade of occasions and characters slipping throughout the skinny membrane of expertise, shaping our histories. even as, he experiments with kind and shape in a superbly sinuous writing. With this, his first ebook, Robinson makes a spectacular debut at the North American literary level.
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Extra info for A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking
But to be catholic is to dismiss ergonomics in any number of senses: take the kneeling or the guilt like varnish, dull and ugly, that coats it all. so in that spirit, it's all the better there's no cable in the visitors' lounge, that the lobby tim hortons closes at six. 44 thick with congealed cream you receded cup by cup, a gradual sipping, your slipping away from us. it began with the ban on coffee, first, just upstairs, and then later, during even my late night brewing downstairs in the midst of chaucer or plath or some other filtration of loss, you'd yell or pound on the floor, your feet still all caffeine-lively, it seemed, and tell me the smell was making you nauseous, i wondered how.
And in mailing this picture postcard to my younger brother on his birthday, i want to convey to him, to let him know, that even in my absence (perhaps all the more so) i, too, know something of the suggestive properties of a location, of a situation, i want my younger brother to know that even here, in another province, i, too, am learning the intricacies of our new speech — another language with its fractured syntax, its bleached bone white and sun-worn hieroglyphics, and so through this image and its stamped discussion of some of the finer points of flight, like its conclusion — solid and unavoidable like the glacial remains that punctuate this card's bruised ochre paragraph of land — i hope to make clear the need for us all: my brother, my father, myself— to listen for and look for the haphazard scatter of that other feather-thin diction of chance recollection; thin as the ratified air of peru or some other mountainous region, somewhere else we have yet to be.
Dad's place has only instant, and the coffee-maker, now mine, irovince away, is nothing but memory so this change, this alteration of my behaviour while home for Christmas, certainly has nothing to do with my mother, his wife, and my insistence on tea even in the face of my father's having merely one bag left (which proves she is now but a memory, and memory is short — her decorative tins now ash-sprinkled at their bottoms as they sit up on her stove) has nothing to do with grief, this, as i sip, i am quite sure of.
A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking by Matt Robinson