Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I have used the nine or so lives of this house.
they are neatly crossed utensils lain just so on an encrusted plate,
In a glance I recall exactly what was there
and what was used to create it
and who made the art and what it is made of and
I know where the light switches are
on which side of the wall when you enter the room
and what the wall feels like
and the smell of the paint as it dried lingering for days until it became cool and powdery to the touch
and the first flaw and the layers that compounded
and the when it began to look like it needed a new coat and the time it became apparent that there would not be one.
how many steps to the stairs and which way to turn to go up and the table by the door that must be avoided so as not to leave a nasty bruise on the thigh.
I have used this small house and it has been a theatre for the dramas of my company
each actor performing simultaneously in their own private act.
Sometimes the effect was cacophony and poly rhythmic
and other times a quiet as the ticking of the clock on the wall-the one that stopped at ten past two and was not restarted for years.
and when it finally resumed its tick tocking,
the cat was alarmed and strove to get to the closest point on top of the adjacent wardrobe to investigate. She nearly fell off. I took a picture. the things you will see if you watch: all happening right in front of you and all around you and inside of you.
all combined until you think you are one with it and then it vanishes
and all you have are your own thoughts tick tocking
and it is enough