I received an actual postcard last week, from a friend vacationing in
Italy. It shows a field of blue flowers (I'm not good with
flowers, but I know these aren't bluebells). And a
house. A round stone house, situated squatly in this field of
flowers. There are no windows. My friend wrote: isn't
this funny? What would you do with a house with no windows?
I'd like to pass this postcard onto you. The stone bricks were
incredibly hay-yellow, the sky an unblemished blue. You could
do many things in a stone house with no windows. You could pretend to
be an Eskimo, since the house is igloo-like. If you had a dog,
you could sit inside with your dog and take a nap. If you had
a friend with you, you could tell each other stories, or kiss each
other. If you were alone, you could write, daydream, knit, eat
Cheetos, file your nails, untangle your hair.
Then, for contrast, to make some sort of point, I'd send you a postcard
of London, where I live. Specifically, of my
desk. Its muddle is an art
collage. To-do-lists, half-read Cosmos magazine,
books cracked open-at-the-spines, a nail-cutter, stapler, coffee cup,
uncapped pen, photo of my children and me at a boat cruise up the
Thames. I'd tamp down my frizzing hair, and in squiggly bad writing,
tell you the pavements outside are wet with drizzle, the wind
brisk. It's only September, but decay is molecular and
- - -
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of Naked Eyes.
Read EC's story, "Chinese Equivalent."
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