they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
Odd relationship to the truth. + May 9. 2002 = 11:14 a.m.
+ Tall windows reveal grey air and pine trees. Feel myself to be a recluse here at the house I grew up in. Month of May and my older sister and I are housesitting. We take hour+ walks at dusk on the dirt roads we rode bikes on years&years&years ago. The Westwood house (named Windfield Farms) has been bought by a NYC couple for use as a summer house. A field of daffodils (the seasons are slow to begin here) promise spring and remind us of Mrs. Westwood who passed away last fall. I want to bring home an armful but my sister votes no. Across fields of new grass and old apple trees there are distant lights that hint at the presence of a few far-flung houses. Day off and I have the house to myself. Early morning is coffee and BBC programming. Breakfast and I read at The Virgin of Bennington. Copy lines that ring true into my heavy red journal. Later, a long walk up my grandfather�s mill road with my sister�s lanky dog. Found following excerpt in old notebook. ( Must confess, am still deeply moved by it.) �Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded together, as I may say, and one man�s a blacksmith and one�s a whitesmith, and one�s a goldsmith, and one�s a coppersmith. Diwisions among such must come, and must be met as they come... You and me is not two figures to be together in London; nor anywheres else but what is private, and beknown, and understood among friends.� Great Expectations -Charles Dickens
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ghosts!
