Annie, Sydney and I decided at midnight that the only thing to do was drive three-and-a-half hours to Oxford, Mississippi, and visit William Faulkner's grave.
Lacking true navigational skills, we were intuitive seekers. Backroads and southern towns with strange names. Egypt and Verona, MS. Deer appearing in the headlights for only a moment and then passing away like phantom-creatures. A fox ran across the road, leaving me feeling young and tricky. We saw two shooting stars.
Arrived at Old Bill's grave at 2:57 AM. Since the trip was completely spontaneous, we lacked the necessary bourbon with which to grace his grave. I prayed that he might forgive us for pouring beer at his feet instead. We left him love-letters in the empty bottle.
To William Faulkner---
Godfather of soil and burning-hearts.
We drove on a whim, on a darkened dream, from Tuscaloosa, AL, to see you.
Along the way we saw wild deer, foxes, and cats.
Keeper of ghosts and green glass and the poem that is the South,
this night is for you.
AGM
April 22nd, 2009 - 2:57 AM
I cannot tell you how strange it is to stand there and know that William Faulkner is resting beneath you. Instead of flowers, people plant pens in the ground. I put my pen among them, imagining for a moment that it would take root. Blood-root. That the ink would seep down and down and down and return his words to him.
Listened to Leadbelly on the way back through Tupelo. In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't shine, tell me where did you sleep last night? I only slept ten minutes the entire night. Watched the twilight drag itself along. Black to blue, white and ecru. The yellows and pinks creeped in closer to home. The sunrise was so unreal to me it looked like a projection, like a phony backdrop. The hot orange disc of the sun was so full it seemed insincere.
Annie had not yet named her new stationwagon. I suggested Sartoris. It stuck.
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