red ribbon white lace

19 April 2003 - 21:16

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>

Two trees, no more than two feet apart, one slightly taller than the other. They never touch, although I'm sure their roots mingle endlessly. Fused vision radiates life outwards to the leaf tips: only together do their never intersecting branches make a perfect tree shape. (If you are in Portland, you will find these trees near the intersection of N Lombard and N Interstate.)

Two girls, brown hair, brown eyes, rarely more than a few feet apart. Late night, early morning, dizzying bus ride. Extraneous shops, unnecessary details honed to filigree while the Russian soul hovers -- suffering, coarse depth, overflowing boundaries, hospitality spewing everywhere
          onto table tiles, fruit torte, cinnamon bun, leftovers from strangers. I step into her world because it is the only way I know to love her. And we agree: the importance of ritual, stamping time into a signifying system. You must love small things -- coffee yogurt, the sunday paper, the trees in dream -- because they won't run out or away. You must be near what you love every day, consume it faithfully but a little bit casually, like we do with each other, because there will always be more.

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>