December 12, 2012
The last of the collections is leather scraps. It smells the best. If you burrow into the bins, you don’t want to touch bottom—damp, mulch-like, maggoty. Stay close to the surface and you’ll be fine. Soak up the scent of soap, bay leaves, and fresh-cut softwood.
Someone rolled gray enamel over the windows. Who would paint a window? Nothing inside this warehouse has borne daylight in a decade or more. This isn’t completely correct; a million billion holes permeate the roof and walls. Matrices of light stand out against the dust that is suspended perpetually. That’s a lot of exposition, so let’s move on.
Look, if you were here, there would be no need to describe everything. You talked and talked about places like this; collected cutout pictures and saved them with thumbtacks and magnets, even though digital storage is so much more efficient. Did your method make it easier to expose the images and make them available for the inspection of passersby?
When I was about ten and still the new kid in the neighborhood, a couple of burly boys befriended me and we’d walk partway home together after school. We’d joke and complain in the ways children do, but Tom and Bill would also take turns punching my arms and back. I complained to my mother. She listened and then asked me if there was something in my pocket I could show them. I think she meant a small toy or other treasure. I shuffled away, more miserable than ever.
Those aren’t ponies you’re hearing. It’s the sound of high heel shoes on a tile floor. That’s not the sourness of wet hay and spoiled stall bedding. Keep your observations to yourself, for once.
It fascinates me endlessly: this place here