I want to write a play about American history. I feel as if the writing itself needs to be a site, a swamp; a structure (stone with sawmarks unfinished) that faces at least four directions, remote but accessible through trespass before noon on an unseasonable Sunday; granite personalized with gouged grafitti. Pat and I went out to see a monument to the Great Swamp Massacre this past weekend – which theorizes the place where a substantial massacre of the Narragansett occurred during King Philip’s War (bloodier, per capita, than the Civil War). Men, women, children, burned; an early lab of genocide. The memorial was speechless, sinking… apt.
Soulographie is shaped like this.