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He lives by himself in a house on a lake. It is quiet there. Somehow
this place puts all into focus. He sits in a chair by the stove. His
wire glasses are laid on the table showing a sad, relaxed, and tired
face lined with grey hair that forms a ponytail. We talked; or
rather I talked and he listened and he talked and I listened.
He had a way of looking at life that showed it's bones. He saw life
as a struggle that one can't win at, but only postpone losing. I saw
life as a problem that I couldn't solve.
His sitting room had objects about. There were fossils and
tools and jigs. Mostly we talked of these.
1976? Lying in the morning sun's radiance. Stretched out in a
lethargic pose as the world continues about him; slowly rising with
the weight of the world on his every bone. Dragging his frame
frame the ground he moves defenselessly. He walks evenly until
a movement ahead catches his eye. An explosion of
consciousness as the legs catapult him to precise speed. Eyes scan
with digital accuracy as the acrobatics of navigation continue to
and endless pounce ahead - but - it is just an autumn leaf moving in
a stir of air.
1976My stony stare looks out towards the meeting of a rich blue sky
and a green meadow. The green that comes only after long rains.
The meeting is so stark, so intense, that it fills me with the
warm summer air. I am on a hillside off an old country road.
A house once stood here, but now all that is left are some lime
stone steps covered with soft textured moss. I sit on these stony
stairs.
1976