hangin' with the preschool set
I'm visiting Mississippi, a part of the world that I have little affection for, to put it mildly. I say that with full confidence, as I was born here. But is a place that has produced some rather interesting writers (Richard Wright, Tennessee Williams, and William Faulkner) and at least one amazing musician (Robert Johnson). I have recently rediscovered Faulkner, his work is so experimental, he's definitely in that line of Proust and Joyce. I keep one of his books in my bag at all times while I am here, as a kind of charm to ward off the evils of this place.
I do have lovely friends who live here, one is my dearest friend Mari, a poet who shares the same birthday in the same year and nearly the same hour as me. I've recently gotten to know her eight-month old kid. The tyke has already got the personality of a man after my own heart: he loves to play, enjoys the pleasures of sleep, and laughs at the silliness of human behavior. The only sticking point in our friendship is his occasional desire to eat my hair.
I wonder what the world seems like to someone who's been in it only for eight months.