29 July 2021
Harry circles, counter-clockwise, as if to make a future of his past. His circles tighten; he corkscrews until he drops from fatigue, sleeps, then starts again to wander. The last time I saw him walk down the hall, it was for no reason. He walked away from us, from the dog next door, from food, from attention. He turned his stunned eyes back, wobbled into the traffic pattern. It was as if the traffic controller walked away, leaving Harry in constant, hyperactive delay. You start circling over Indiana, brush stroke after brush stroke, until the circle breaks at O’Hare. The monk rehearses broken circles each morning, placing them on desk or table in front of garden or water. This is not a sign of failure for the monk, but of sketching a brokenness that doesn’t ache. Transcendental realism. But Harry goes to the vet this evening to die. He still wags his tail, eats, wants to be petted. Then goes back to his incessant geometry. This morning, Lilith circled back to the bone yard where last week she found a pig’s hip joint; there was no bone this time, just grass by the side of a private lane.
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