Download At the Bureau of Divine Music by Michael Heffernan PDF

By Michael Heffernan

A considerate and chic assortment from comprehensive puppy Michael Heffernan.

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Extra resources for At the Bureau of Divine Music

Example text

I had to move, at least to put new things in front of me, 26 if not to make another kind of home, if home was what I wanted in the first place. I’d call it by its name if it had one, or, failing that, I’d call it Africa. 27 Key My Sunday morning nightmare takes me beyond mystical towers and strident boulevards to the underground whose priestesses lurch the halls, shaking their fiery coifs around the latest deranged advisories that they have to spew onto the air to help me find my way to the hotel with my luggage and your note about the errand you needed me to run and waited to hear about from the cell phone that was not there in my gray coat pocket.

I mention that the bench was clean because most of the benches there had droppings on them, which was no one’s fault. All I had to do was find a clean spot and a bit of shade close to the trash bin for the stick and wrapper, while I woke to the feast of blues and greens. The rest was autumn and the moms and prams and boys on bicycles with training wheels. A girl in a blue dress walked out of the sun straight up the one long path among the trees as far as someplace else she had to go. 50 All You Can Eat A man is tenderly kissing a child’s head.

The photograph showed their bodies on the front page. He tugged my hand and kept me from seeing it. We mark these solitudes throughout our lives. 36 This is not simply about things as they are. This is about donuts, profiteroles, and straw hats. Things cannot be as they are in this country. 37 At the Bureau of Divine Music The whole day I hung around in the sky over Russia was a Wednesday in October. No one looked up with any semblance of regard from the heroic Russian people. I had flown from Paris to visit the faubourgs of Omsk, Irkutsk, Novosibirsk, but they were filled with a smother of blue coal fires, shadows of shadows coughing up tendrils of gray phlegm onto ice floes that passed for boulevards, back alleys, byways that ended in country lanes over the Urals to Ulan Bator and the Mongolian grasslands.

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