Long hollow empty place. Quill of a feather. An otherness you know nothing of. To other's book. What may be most striking here is the absolute refusal to create a dichotomy of mother and artist as separate spheres.
Artist is an act of motherhood, tearing, fear, blood.
Mother is an act of catching words, pasting paragraphs, living language. The stance allows one act to interfere with the other, but not to separate. To book as in to foal. This essay is singular in its abjurance of discursive form. An open field, not a closed case.