reading about sebald and porous memory made me think of the graveyard i visited with my dog in southern illinois. i see him leaping on the spongy ground like a deer with the distinct feeling this dog is dancing with spirits—they love this dog like i do. i thought the soil was ensouled, aerated by the breath of the dead through the rhizomatic tunnels of worms and moles and fingery roots, fingering our own. a different time, breathing as soil breathes, breathing grass, moss and lichen. it was sexy too, that grave place, it smelled deep. we felt so alive, more than back there in town in bed at home dreaming of a longer home past longing, a home of memory and impermanence. um, wait a minute, what am i saying—i meant to be reading. i am, i just read this, from austerlitz: ...the longer i think about it the more it seems to me that we who are still alive are unreal in the eyes of the dead, that only occasionally, in certain lights and atmospheric conditions, do we appear in their field of vision.