This woman's friends. There's a loom which the woman-friend works.
The man-friend's feeding chickens. At night we sit in a kitchen with an oil lamp strung-around by a live spider's web.
There's some snow lying on the horse pasture. There're antiques nearby stored for sale in the barn stalls and in the barn loft.
There's still hay scattered there. Above, in the isolate crack-shafts of sunlight, old toys and edge-worn mirrors of dead beldames.
There's something about possessions.
There's something about what we have.
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There is something about the personal significance of possessions. Life would be a lot less interesting without objects, without heritage.
ReplyDeleteTess,
ReplyDeleteIt's haunting. And a bit frightening. That things meaning something become things meaning little or nothing.
'Junk' needs a small while to become 'collectibles' and a generation or two or three to become 'antiques'.
Same with writing, methinks. Big reps die and sometimes don't get the later resuscitation?
Non-reps may be, to switch metaphors, the differentiatable proto-mammals that outlive the dinosaurs?
Trulyfool
Patrimony seems interesting to me when it looks like an impalpable memory.
ReplyDeleteAs long as possession does not turn into obssession... moved by the smooth-running of your thought.
ReplyDeleteIsabelle,
ReplyDeleteThings garner ghosts?
Trulyfool
Frederique,
ReplyDeleteThanks for joining in!
I wonder if forgetting what we keep is an obsession of sorts, too?
The thought ran from me with relative smoothness. Descriptive angles that felt they yielded something as a whole.
Trulyfool