Touching Robert Coover in Providence.
Suddenly I remember my trip through the U.S.A. in 1980: no cells; the locked dials of the Bakelite phone next to the motel bed. 70s colors everywhere, past anterior was still yesterday then. Driving through New York State aglow in autumn leaves. A racoon sneaking out of the bin; the large eyes of the Spanish scientist, as round as her untouchable breasts. The college friends of my sister, who thought me exotic; I’d only just begun to feel right in my body. The subterranean steel chambers of the particle accelerators. Cornell’s slumbering meadows. The Jewish daughter of a painter from Montauk, who died too young. Making love in a souterrain full of abstract art, dominated by red; guilt-free games, sputtering sex, but enjoyable nevertheless. Afterwards: oaths that we didn’t believe ourselves. Three days of amnesia under a silk duvet. The transfer of the spirit of experimental literature through the moist hand shake with Robert Coover. The scent of witch trials still in the air. I took Providence with me as an omen when I went back home East.