Excerpts from a fiction

Pouring rain; the doorbell; Canada Post with a box containing author copies of the twenty-eighth title in above/ground's prose/naut imprint: Tierra del Fuego (excerpts from a fiction) :

He stayed off expressways and stuck to secondary roads when he could, sometimes in forest, sometimes with wide vistas: though the mountains there are not the spectacular peaks farther north they are softly sublime. He saw the small blue sign marking the access road for the Institute among the aspens, a place he’d read about wondering if he’d ever wind up there himself, given his work it wasn’t impossible and in a way it would be closing an open loop in his life. He had no idea Sil would be there a few years later; he had just discovered Tear had a sister, my genius sister Tear said, we’re twins but she’s five years older. Later he found his journals didn’t mention that sign though he recalled it clearly, of course illuminated by Sil’s tenure there and everything that transpired afterwards: it was one of those things that gained significance only in retrospect. And exactly what significance did it have, if any, anyway? It was like realizing that you and the green-eyed stranger at the bar beside you were both at the same event, a concert or gallery opening or conference, a decade or more ago. She doesn’t know who Rilke was but at least you have that in common, the same place at the same time; an entanglement, yes, but not something that tells you much about anything. Simultaneity isn’t information.

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