interruptions

"Mosley cannot tell a story because there never is a story; the interruptions are what interest him. He wants to track the orbits of thought, each of which constitutes its own stab at the truth." Mark Rudman describes the writing of Nicholas Mosley, son of the British fascist, Oswald, in his (Nicholas’s) Catastrophe Practice series. Right away, three pages into it, I want to stop reading Rudman’s essay on Nicholas, skip the reading of Nicholas himself, whom I’ve never heard of (Oswald I do know), and go where the interruptions live with the orbits of thought in the land of the stabbed-at truth. I’m convinced that it’s right next door, where I have poached many a poem merely by driving by and waving at the man leaf-blowing his lawn into submission. He wears those dark glasses that airline pilots and state troopers wear and never smiles. Never has grass been clipped so close to the ground. It makes me want to pet it.