the more chipped, dogeared, faded, wornout, scribbled it is, the sweeter the memory.
i see she's carved her name on the dresser by the mirror and smile, it will stay like the grubby marks left behind by all the silly, then profound and precious, bits n bobs I put up on the lil cupboard's doors, way after I'd ripped them off, the one I had aeons ago, my refuge from the world...
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i love strangeness...sound corny when i write it so. meeting and connecting, if briefly, with strangers, picking up strange books that probably nobody's ever read, seeing strange films that might not be classics or blockbusters, having strange experiences, strange alleys, corners and places, storms...
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3 comments:
oh yes, 'hope', definitely. for something to redeem the mundaneness. :-)
maybe a matter of shared transience : time writing on cherished objects as much as marking us - Well, in this case: not merely Time writing , but also a very entrepreneurial and busily carving young hand!
amazing (& moving) how you manage to evoke with words the very physical & tactical & comforting quality of a cupboard
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the redemptive power of strangeness – yes, yes indeed
dear ffflaneur, the carving turned out to be a mere scratch but there is more extensive carving in the offing, i know. :-D
so apt, Time writing on us...the more weathered scarred lined a face, the deeper the plotline, given the profusion of Botoxed cosmetically erased canvases today, boring.
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