The thin collection of stories by the Argentine, the cover, blue canvas, gold lettering. It is currently in transit, on a ship no doubt in the Pacific. I am never quite at home without it and I have no notion as to when it will arrive.
A DVD I bought but have not felt moved to watch. The photo of the two lovers, an embrace, frozen in a kiss which, no matter how many times we look, has failed to materialize. And the caption, The film they were made for.
A symbol for the year of the rabbit given to me by a student.
A button. Barrack Obama, 2008.
And in a box. Old fears. A bit of fabric that can be woven into anything we like. We postpone its mending. It will gather moisture and dust from the room, its ends beginning to curl, to tatter themselves without ever having been worn.
We might feel it necessary to keep the items separate. Give each its own shelf. It is to impose an illusion of order upon things which, by their very nature, make heaps.
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