Until, one day …

In Artists, Current reading, Drafts, Hautvoir, Local projects, photography, Poetry, Theater, Uncategorized, Visual artists on February 23, 2014 at 6:59 am

The weather front ran on a long diagonal – top left to bottom right. Winds of tremendous speed. Coils of wind, braided. We hunkered low. The  next onslaught, a tremor first, lighter than a flight of midges. Then, the trees shaking, the whole forest overtaken by an epileptic seizure.

A dream.


At the meeting yesterday morning,

two of the locals – by which one must understand native-born within the town proper –

elected members of the Municipal Council,


a motley crew of artists (some, quite ripe from the first of two nights celebrating another artist’s birthday)

parents (delegates from two of the primary schools)

two boys (approximate ages: seven and four)

paper, a jar of crayons

For the umpteenth time, a re-enactment of The Great Divide: you weren’t born here, you can’t understand vs I wasn’t born here why won’t you listen to me either?

In a friend’s book, much later, the words: Comment aimer l’avenir en sachant que je n’y fabriquerai que des souvenirs? (How to love the future, knowing I’ll only produce memories there?). The most apt description of the feeling I get every time one of those two local gentlemen turns an empty gaze on me. Both fine and gentle people, both longstanding contributors to the town’s betterment. I’ve lived here for several years now. They still look at me (and others like me) as if we were distant motes on the horizon. We stare back from the town we know; invite them to our events, describe some of the shows, musicals, art projects. Spin our wheels. Make no connection.

“We never get any information on any of these happenings,” one of the parents kvetches. Posters, all over town. Flyers in mailboxes. An illustrated calendar of events, also in every mailbox. Who can put eyes in someone else’s face, or ears on both sides of his or her head? You see what you want to see, and not one thing more.


The weather front ran on a long diagonal. A dream. Or some other rent in the fabric of the commonplace.


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