Reading Frank Hinton is bracing, like stepping outside on a brisk, windy day freshly showered, contacts newly put in. I feel unsettled and unsure. An implacable menace hangs over these pieces like death every moment. The book is thematic at the language level. There is talk of physical and emotional bonds. There is meditation and joyless sex and animals in traps and death and death. Almost every piece directly or indirectly involves death. Hinton has spoken in an interview with Dark Sky about doing Osho’s death meditation.
Like waking from death meditation, sensory details are heightened: clementine juice filling one’s mouth; thick curls of hair crowning the base of a father’s penis; etiolated skin; a round, plump ass; the taste of one’s t-shirt collar.
May 24th, 2011 / 1:39 pm