| October 17, 2000 | |
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Encouragement
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| There are six people in a room, a room with doors and windows. Only the tall brown mural listens. Intensity of words derives from sleep and the whirling lights of the squad car in the intersection. A pen and sketchbook make contact, but all the snow there evaporates too quickly.
There are six people around a table in an outdoor courtyard. The plants died of the frost yesterday. The lights come on at twilight. The round light shows that his face is made of ebony. The light shines in his diamond earring. The discussion is respectable. Questions wilt with inhibition. There are two people in Mexico living in a kitchen with cats. Their heads are made of lightbulbs and their embroidered aprons sizzle. They concoct their whole nurturance with tiny spoonfuls of rice pudding. Beyond, worn and stained cupboards release the rubbed soft lost recipes of Europe. There are three people engaged in a dance. They remain seated while reciting handwritten poems with their feet. Their skins are aqua and their hats are made of milk. Eye contact is within their repertoire, but prohibited by the dark glasses. Tomorrow is their birthday party. |