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I wrote question-asking poetry, trying to gain access to my nighttime mind, achieving it sometimes. Through the agency of language I could remember without the aid of much memory, again and again, and know what to trust and what not, if I was patient and kept its faith. I didn't lose my nerve, or flinch more than was neurologically necessary.
I began with no trace of Mother's voice, and it never came to me. I had to go to it, my language had to search it out, I had to find it within myself, my mother's voice in her absence, and if I wanted to keep it I had to find it again and again in everything. Often there was the feeling that this was the work I'd become an artist to do.
My beautiful, popular, young mother died in my bed-prisoner to a way of life in one view, in another to life itself. Stunned, watching from across the room as her fate became mine, I was taken out to the farthest vanishing point, where the world as we have always known it never did exist, where life and death aren't different faces but the same one body, and joy and terror, nurture and devastation, aren't separate, as they seem to be. And all along the way out to those grand erasures and revelations, there was great mystery within mystery.
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