Writing out of sadness is difficult-- the light scaffold today feels heavy. And yet, what do we have if no 'structure', no 'skin on the surface of the water', no 'steam fogging the windows from outside'. I want to write about the effect of one thing on another-- reciprocal or reverberative imprints, what smudges us with fingerprints, what brushes our faces with 'dark wings' (annie dillard), what leaves a dusting of residue on the tops of our arms, our upturned faces? How do we recognize and record our own trail through the world. What of we are residue, what of dust?
"A house constitutes a body of images that give mankind proofs or illusions of stability. We are constantly re-imagining its reality: to distinguish all these images would be to describe the soul of the house; it would mean developing a veritable psychology of the house." (bachelard, the poetics of space, 17)
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