Part one
the Richard Brautigan of my youth brings me not fame and
fortune artist type but rather here,, un wanting to go to work, un
wanting to start the fire; for some reason not minding even this
Irish cold of a stone cottage on the soft outlands by some ancient
fairy tear drop lake. older than children of lir, older than swans,
sorrows of an age of ice surrendered, scared into a valley of wind
and soft reeds l such as where stones were heaved into boxes for the
filing of small human lives. grey bones of long dead glaciers and
the twisted muscle of earth’s resistance, cut to fit by long dead
humans . Stone of bone encapsulated ice age how many days? Days of
even now the open air mid winter warmer outside than is in. the
stone locks in its glacial ghosts. the nights even by an open fire,
filled with whispers of returned revenge. I could fit a small car
into the fire place. In America it would be romantic. Here I suppose
sometimes it is , in the summer if we get one, in the golden autumn a
few days now in November. To talk about the weather an insincere
politeness, unless you were out in the rural lands where then it was
a true concern as well as a way of showing friendliness. These days
now to talk about the weather reminds me of cliché Si-Fi stories
something from the 50s, you know nuclear winter or disrupted axis due
to alien interventions or atomic testing or maybe an asteroid? Trees
are growing within the Arctic circle. The north pole will soon be
used to mark a golf cup.
There are places to sit inside the hearth. Places to sir
by the cast iron crane that once held the iron handles of iron
cooking pots, sway them in and out back n forth like the three bears,
like Hansel and Gretel like a witches cauldron bubble and trouble,
like tiny Tim like a dream of every long gone discoverer of open
fire. the heaviness of stone, iron, cold, fire, turf, these were the
places that only famine and/or bailiffs cold ever lever you out of.
But now I am here from America, wondering who the girls were in the
photographs with Richard Brautigan on the covers of his books.
wondering whatever happened to people I used to know back in the USA,
high school days and can I ever not wish justice on those bulling
bastards of my first year? ah but today is now and the sun catches
little dangling crystals off the candle holder small rainbows brief n
glorious across the table up the white walls into the dark beam
ceiling disappear because of marauding clouds reappear dance renew as
my typing slightly shakes the table.
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