Near Misses

It has been. A short season. Of near misses. In the Johannesburg airport. On my way to Swaziland. The vuvuzelas were trumpeting. And there were planes. With nose cones. Painted like soccer balls. But it was before. The World Cup.

Yesterday. I was in Rhinebeck, New York. Where there is great speculation. By the media. That Chelsea Clinton will marry. Next weekend. An eccentric little media type. In a light suit. And bow tie. Accompanied by a Hollywood blond. In a very short skirt. With a little dog. Stands on the corner in front of a camera. They are preparing. The environmental shots. The speculative shorts. The pre-wedding play by play. Which will fill the airwaves. But by next weekend. I will be gone from here.

A thousand years ago. When Clinton was president. I did run into Chelsea. In the unlikelyest of places. I was in Chinatown. In San Francisco. And I looked through the shelves. Past ceramic foo dogs. To the incense. And there was young Chelsea. Telling a friend. That sometimes her parents. Burned incense. And my mind conjured. The image. On incense in the Clinton White House. Swirling through space.

In a minute. She was gone. Young hip secret service. Checking the doors. And the street. And escorting her entourage. On.

A Bruised. Writer.

Analysis. Of word choice. And writing style. Can leave one. Bruised.

I went to the site. I Write Like. And popped in. A blog post. The suffocating result. Was Dan Brown. So I tried. Again. Cory Doctorow. Who I do. Not know. Again. Dan Brown. Again. Chuck Palhniuk. A trangressive. Fiction novelist? And then. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce.

Above all. Invisible to me. Were the names. Of women authors. Ephemeral. Undetectable. Lost.