Topic: Little Musings

Zazette Cavi

Date: 2008-06-06 00:42 EST
If I am to be honest about the colors I see in this place I am quiet about it. I tiptoe through the thresholds of room to room, leaving my fingerprints along the doorframes like raindrop to a leaf. I bend down and hug one of the kittens under the table, or embrace one of the horses outside that the owner tends to daily. He whispers to them and looks resigned. He is a good man but speaks more to the animals than to me.

I did feel bad, originally. I dragged my Belongings, those things to which I return to, again and again, like portable homes, and we rise to the staircase from the wide entrance where there is a kitchen and a window and another room that I leant into my feet to see that I am sure wasa study. But it was dark, and soft viola was playing. I wanted to keep looking, but Bernie ushered me along.

I slept well that night. I did not think on this man. He also smells like fire, that is the last thing I thought of him, before taking the kitten to my bed and resting it down. I kept dreaming of silent landscapes where the trees seemed to rock back and forth and the sky was low and rainy. It was cold and beautiful and wet. I imagined it was really seen from my caravan and my mind had tucked it away for dreamtime, like something to paint. I often do that, unconsciously. But storytellers operate differently, and everything can become a source of inspiration. Like energy, from the books I was shown years ago by Bernie, stories never die. They have no death.

And so ink is immortal.