Quick autobio in pinkish ink...
This torn from a notebook, sent in to DonKay 1970. Class notes are on the reverse page, and we resisted the desire to treat them as the submission. Indeed, one suspects these notes mirror the lecture with the same fealty that the following passage does the life of its author, Dawn Sasion. This, of course, is DonKay.
But it always seems to mean something extra when the whole page isn’t neatly removed from the notebook before being mailed into the archives here at Donkay and rather a tear has been made across the middle of the page, as if the paper must end where the writing does or else the narrative might continue of its own will. So we hope Dawn won’t mind the editorial ellipsis we’ve placed at the end as a stand in for this passionate rip, and perhaps more fundamentally, that she doesn't resent that we’ve extended the natural ellipsis of time by posting this so long after she was impelled to quill it among study notes. Anyway, it seems like everything turned out ok. She still sends us her clippings after all.
Somehow the root of their attraction lay in the vision that awaited her each day as she approached the library. To arrive there from her downtown apartment she had to walk along the city’s principal thoroughfare. That summer it was under interminable construction, and the impatient motorists with their honking and greedy thrusts were enough to distract her constantly as she walked.
Perhaps this was why the sudden vista of the library always left her breathless. Turning off of the avenue and onto the green seemed to mask all the rude sounds of the city. The sidewalks were populated exclusively by students, hurrying girls and puffy-chested boys. But D.'s vision was always elevated at this moment, rising over the walkers who seemed stuck in the same silence as the invisible traffic, tiny in the shadow of the library.
The building itself was nothing extraordinary. It was of recent construction in grey concrete. But its architect had instilled it with a symmetry no less pleasing that the more classical buildings of the campus, and as she approached it she appreciated the way her changing perspective rearranged the lines of its windows and furrows.
She’d breath deeply through her nostrils as she passed under the arch and climbed up the steps. But surely it wasn’t only the anticipation of another day slowly amassing materials for her thesis that animated her so. Might it not be the extra-academic spark between herself and Martina, her advisor, the way the timbre of the elder's voice seemed just like the soft yellow of aged documents, her gaze on me as steady and as pleased as if reading a text. Fingers moving the pages of books seemed to communicate…
But it always seems to mean something extra when the whole page isn’t neatly removed from the notebook before being mailed into the archives here at Donkay and rather a tear has been made across the middle of the page, as if the paper must end where the writing does or else the narrative might continue of its own will. So we hope Dawn won’t mind the editorial ellipsis we’ve placed at the end as a stand in for this passionate rip, and perhaps more fundamentally, that she doesn't resent that we’ve extended the natural ellipsis of time by posting this so long after she was impelled to quill it among study notes. Anyway, it seems like everything turned out ok. She still sends us her clippings after all.
Somehow the root of their attraction lay in the vision that awaited her each day as she approached the library. To arrive there from her downtown apartment she had to walk along the city’s principal thoroughfare. That summer it was under interminable construction, and the impatient motorists with their honking and greedy thrusts were enough to distract her constantly as she walked.
Perhaps this was why the sudden vista of the library always left her breathless. Turning off of the avenue and onto the green seemed to mask all the rude sounds of the city. The sidewalks were populated exclusively by students, hurrying girls and puffy-chested boys. But D.'s vision was always elevated at this moment, rising over the walkers who seemed stuck in the same silence as the invisible traffic, tiny in the shadow of the library.
The building itself was nothing extraordinary. It was of recent construction in grey concrete. But its architect had instilled it with a symmetry no less pleasing that the more classical buildings of the campus, and as she approached it she appreciated the way her changing perspective rearranged the lines of its windows and furrows.
She’d breath deeply through her nostrils as she passed under the arch and climbed up the steps. But surely it wasn’t only the anticipation of another day slowly amassing materials for her thesis that animated her so. Might it not be the extra-academic spark between herself and Martina, her advisor, the way the timbre of the elder's voice seemed just like the soft yellow of aged documents, her gaze on me as steady and as pleased as if reading a text. Fingers moving the pages of books seemed to communicate…
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 4:10 PM
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