. . . and disappears too quickly into the thrum of the city streets. Where have the past two weeks gone? Why have I not posted anything here? Am I dead? Dying? Sick? Confused? Captured? Stuffed under the kitchen sink, all trussed up with dental floss?
None of the above. I have no excuse. I've just been wandering, in and out of rain, re-imagining spring.
None of the above. I have no excuse. I've just been wandering, in and out of rain, re-imagining spring.
And spring has been happening.
Flowers bursting from concrete.
Seas lifting past usual borders, leaving behind wisps of ocean hair.
And in some neighborhoods, there are new houses of a size suitable for fairies more at home sheltering under lily leaves. Furniture-less, these houses keep the rain off words -- spread the word. Keep literature circulating and free.
I'm all for it.
So winter leaves, summer comes sneaking in, and I am making my own decisions about my own teeny-weeny house of a size suitable for dreams.
What am I in the eyes of most people - a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person - somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then - even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart.
. . . So Vincent Van Gogh once wrote to his brother Theo.
Now, I'm going to go and make some tapioca. I love tapioca -- fish eyes and glue, we used say as kids, our spoons clanking against the metal sides of the pan, polishing it clean before the pudding cooled.
Fish eyes and glue.
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