As I attempt to collect the fragments of my life to kintsugi back together, I see my wabi sabi sense has been obscured by a Hokusai wave frozen on the shore for some time. Leaving me feeling locked in the museum of me for one hell of a long night, licking turned out candy wrappers and drinking out of chip bags. But even a museum of the self is connected to some natural history, and in the basement I find a lot written on the walls (it's a library and I'm researching a video tape).
There is a legacy of needs. What to eat, how to live and how to die. But even more there are gray areas. Gray periods. Oh and colors too. But things are not hard and they are not fast. There are bean bag chairs and there is a cheese cart and butterbeer on tap. Which is a way of saying, when you hunker down within yourself, you can find such surprising wealth and comfort (crack open Vladamir's chest and see the butterflies pour out).
While winter waits behind the wall, the smells are sinking in. Smells I associate with sunlight making stained glass through the boughs. Night, a sound booth with heavy walls hangs soughs in the thicket to weather. And inside, a thousand sighs from the front room whisper out the seams in the windows. My mother doing bird calls from every floor. And I traveling through the days from under a lampshade. Giving books away like a canvasser. Leaving a trail of salt. Trying to find it all, tuck it here in bins and there in cabinets, to weigh the house down. Set it in the hill like statue commemorating the pillow fight that leveled my grandfather's fort and marked his sister for the petty tyrant time would prove her to be.
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