|
2003-09-02 Things moving slower, darker. A museum of beautiful things removed. An old steam ship out of water next to a new england lighthouse on the valley lawn. We wandered in the dark heavy underbelly where teenagers shoveled coal into the fire invisibly for six months at a time. A dark replica apartment with Monets' pastels lit up, being the only color. Cupie dolls with dirty faces and 18th century pale yellow quilts made from saved handkerchiefs. Dreams where the mountains seem more vertical, blocking. Waking up to a tractor, i hope, backfiring over and over again and migrant farm workers picking the last of tomatos and balancing the crates on their heads as the walk. Sometimes, I feel, I just let down, so down. I want to be in a study circle. Something of a sewing circle of thought. An investigation of everyday things. Claire gave me an old coffee jar of collected buttons with an orange cap so that i might sew. She's eighty and french canadian and lived with a man who cheated on her but now is across the street in the cemetery under a stone with her name on it prematurely. Her recliner points at the window--I took her putt-putt for the first time in her life last week. I haven't found it yet, really, the striking depth of everyday things but these old buttons are close. But here is very nice, and so is here. |