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i moved where my heart had drifted off to long before. i live on a hill of hundred acres, where my dreams have merged with the view. it is quiet from machine noises yet loud with sounds of horses, dogs, cats chickens and ducks. nature is the true artist in resident and i am just her apprentice who often gets lost in her gaze. once and a while i travel back to cities and foreign places to put into photographs what i have learned, yet always, part of my heart is left on the hill..

Friday, March 13, 2009

the museum

waiting in line at the cafe, i place my order the man behind me does the same his voice so familiar i can't help but turn around. I i have seen him before but i do not know him, i turn back around and feel him lean towards me as he whispers "meet me at museum, risd museum" I don't acknowledge thinking that he must not be talking to me. I get my drink when i look about he is gone. I walk to my car and notice a note ..please meet me. I think how crazy this is and how i absolutely will not. I start driving towards town and there is a detour that brings right in front of the museum. i shake my head in disbelief and whisper no, no. but somehow i am parking.

as i walk into the lobby he is there, if he is surprised he doesn't show it. I don't say anything, somehow i feel like i am in my teens. we go up the elevator the door open's and we walk into the exhibition. he tries to speak but somehow my thin voice says " please can we just look around in silence" i am awkwardly confident but not really sure. I get lost in photographs, artifacts, so lost i forget he is there-no that is not true i am aware, he is standing a foot away yet i can feel his weight on me. we go into my favorite room full of impressionist paintings. i stare at the colors and the people on the canvases i almost hear them. I notice he is not looking at them in fact he had not really looked at anything, he stares at me " why aren't you looking at the art" he replies " i am" i want to laugh-no i want to tell him that those are wasted words that i had fallen for such words before, used by bald hairy italian men- common words, common men. instead i say every museum has bad art. I excuse myself to the ladies room, i wash my hands and face the water is cold. drying now i look in the mirror i recognize her. her wrinkles start to fade her skin becomes pale and lips the color of early raspberries. i look straight at her, i tell her no never again as i walk through the doors till i find myself outside walking to fast to call it a walk i find my car and my salvation.

1 comment:

in another lifetime said...

I had an experience in that Impressionist room, maybe that's why this shook me so- one of the reasons, anyhow. Remind me to tell you about it!!