After she has moved through the rooms and faces, the déjà vu and pulse, the light and shadow of Prague—the mother of cities—and entered its black-and-blue night. After she has taken the performance artist—spoiled brat—to the apartment of a Russian washed-up gymnast turned sculptor—dearest friend—who will take the young woman in for as long as it takes. An apartment shared with a post-op Czech transsexual. Overlooking the river Neva. After she has dined with her friend the poet journalist from Krasny 100%. They talk the talk of outsider writers. The poet is warm in her chest. After she has gotten drunk with the poet journalist and his friends—a collage artist and his contortionist cousin—after she has witnessed the sexual excess of all of them together in a five-star hotel room, the impossible bend and lurch of the cousin’s body, her eating herself, her howl still animal in her head. How travel loosens sexuality until it hops like a parasite from host to host, feeding, always feeding.
What do You think about The Small Backs Of Children?
