Nobody really knows anymore how anybody dressed prior to 1950, yet photographs abound. She sets a bowl of sugar cubes on the table and I can't choose between gratitude for sugar cubes and admiring the bowl, which is white ceramic with intricate spiraling vines of purple and yellow flowers. So much comes down to where we locate ourselves and how much flexibility we allow ourselves in terms of travel.
I had to call Chrisoula from a grocery store three hundred miles away and ask for a definition of "opaque," it was that kind of morning, that kind of trip. Even in a wheelchair - even in the early 1970s in a wheelchair - she was the strongest woman whose hand I would ever take. Sausages thawing on enormous silver radiators in the living room.
One notices that nouns are disappearing from their brain, as if the interior lexicon were being emptied, like a Catholic church being stripped of icons before bulldozers plow it under. When he played accordion, he turned his head to the left and slightly up. Who do we mock, who do we admire.
Under the influence of cannabis, I do not get angry but instead experience the deep shame that anger is designed to efface, and in this way learn that vulnerability is the cure for shame. Despite temperatures hovering just below freezing, morning sun melts icicles on the east-facing eaves of this, the former parsonage. I cannot help but circle back to those moments when the dialogue was aimed at explaining their illegal pet turtle.
How I am never not amazed by tides, menstruation cycles, lycanthropy and other expressions of our indebtedness to the moon. Writing through breakfast to where you could as easily call it lunch. The title emerges from the piece in a way intended to marginalize the significance of titles (theory is form, form theory).
Insomnia that can no longer be healed through this or that sexual intervention. He collected sextants - including a couple from the eighteenth century - and I was covetous and aware of my coveting and thus not exactly covetous. A paperback copy of A Christmas Carol and the memories which make it dear.
At home it's easy to pretend the roads you use are not the point but absent roads there is no such thing as home. I am not godless yet my sense of what is sacred does drift a lot, reverential posturing coming and going like wind.
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