Driving at night always feels like the invisible road to destiny becoming visible. The female nighthood/knighthood Kathy Acker writes about in Don Quixote. Underneath the green, there is black. Underneath the black, there is green. Your valor: light in the dark. As fresh and eternal as a forest.
In Don Quixote, Acker writes:
“The knight took such a night to be an omen. But of what? Nevertheless discounting the peril, she kept on…Slowly, life was returning, in the same way that light makes its way into a sky that has lasted through the night.”
In “A Philosophy of Surrender,” Robbie Dewhurst writes about David Rattaray’s collection of essays and stories in How I Became One of the Invisible, a book about traveling—un(t)raveling.
“On its surface, of course, the text is a simple collection of carefully-written, intricately-detailed, first-person narratives, prose accounts of a single poet’s multiple journeys into, within, and back out of different foreign territories: uncharted geographic, literary, and emotional spaces. But somehow travel narrative doesn’t really feel right as a label here; David’s stories always seem to go somewhere beyond that. Far beyond the aorist, beyond the what happened. Marc Thivolet’s comments on Roger Gilbert-Lecomte, cited in here by Rattray, apply just as well at the late end of the century to Rattray’s own stories, to these prose productions of this other strangest-of-poets. Like Gilbert-Lecomte’s soberly unfinished verses, Rattray’s stories are nothing less than ‘road signs which are meaningful only to someone on the road.’ Certainly, ‘they are not for stationary reading.”