Talking to yourself is a sign of madness: conjures old women, stacked up one above the other in high rises, talking out their days to budgies, cats, to photos on bureaus—who they saw, who wore what, what needs to be done, what doesn’t. I’m early. Fifty-four & talking to the dog, to the stir fry, to the dead. Call it pre-writing, the planning out of poems and plots. I’m talking to myself. In a mangled accent: London submerged under fifteen years of America.
Dinner at the President’s house. High art & wood paneling. Everyone talking: “snow…frozen pipes...music in high schools...stand up, stand up against ignorance…ignorance. I’m chewing/rehearsing: jump in, say something now, no, now, no, now, now, no, now, now, now, no...
3:30pm interview for Bone Song. 3:23 Want to vomit. Presenter plays opening bars, introduces me, my name, my book. Dig down into Britishness, my voice for strangers. I conjure Judy Dench…Maggie Smith. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. I jump in, say something, feel its clipped consonants, its shortened vowels. Said something else. Said something else. Said something else.
Friends said I sounded comfortable. My sister said I sounded British…and then American.
One day I’ll sound like me.
LINK TO FRIDAY'S INTERVIEW WITH DIANNA BELLEROSE:http://www.blogtalkradio.com/