The Writer’s Art, by James J. Kilpatrick (Andrews, McMeel, 254 pp., $14.95)
Couple bloods were glidin’ and wavin’ up Eighth Avenue just in front of me. They had a baaad problem: they couldn’t explain, it was frustrating, when or where to meet later in the day. Finally one said, “Time, my man, time when you hear the mo-fo DJ on BLS—when that is, I’m there and you, got me?” An hour was, in this vague way, accounted for, but the true coordinates of place could not be found. “I mean, s–tman, ’round where Ira got over on me, you know, ’round that park where I buy spliff one time from Jaywalk.” Place was associated entirely with particular events in the past: uptown-downtown, eastwest. street number and sequence held little useful resonance. Since the other hadn’t been present at those moments with Ira or Jaywalk, there could be no geographical reference for him. This is the state (albeit extreme and not restricted to black experience) of communication in our culture. I just hope that pair can’t locate a voting booth when they reach their majority.
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