Reading Hélène Cixous’ The Book of Promethea has found me at a strange place.  ”Our history has a bumpy geography:” she writes.  What history doesn’t?  It is a book about love, but un-love.  The not-love that is love.  The pain of it all.  ”Because in love not all is love.”  And the absolute fiery consuming beauty.

And then I read this and I am foolish and little and young; I know nothing of tragedy or pain.  

This is a terrifying place, the world.  There are so many breakable moments, so many crushing defeats.  So much love beneath it all but how to find that vein… sometimes it seems I know, other-times it is impossibly distant and I am parched.  (Cixous’ voice infects me. I mimic poorly, but I can’t approach her book without beginning to slip into it.  My thoughts want to follow hers, trace the spaces between lines for some thread back to myself.)  I am wandering.