My darling young one

In Artists, Drafts, Games, Hautvoir, Music, Poetry, Theater on March 2, 2014 at 8:38 am

If I stay in this apartment, I’ll ask the landlord about removing the wallpaper. I’ll ask about laying down a decent piece of flooring in the kitchen, too. All these years of trying to make sense out of the how and the why I now live in this town.

Clear, clear sky this morning. On the next street over – the one I’ll walk down to market : three pigeons on a frosted rooftop, puffed inside their feathers for insulation. All three facing into the morning sun.

Three small children last night – six, four and three years old. Their parents: in their mid or late thirties. Learning. The four-year old, a natural born storyteller. I sing with three of the parents. We’d never talked before about the how and the why we find ourselves in this town.

Light, on mossy frosted roof tiles. What happens next, a mystery as always. A morning comes when you open your mouth. Words come out you didn’t expect to hear ever. There they are. There’s sky,  there’s light. In the park, half-opened daffodils in their papery sheaths.

Before rehearsal, yesterday morning: sitting inside the kitchen/dining room caravan. What was that version of St Jame’s Infirmary you played at the party that night, he asks. I explain about Arlo Guthrie, son of Woody. When will you write something in French, so we can read it, he asks next. I don’t know, I answer. Words show up or they don’t. Sometimes, they need a lot of empty space before coming out to play.


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