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Bedrooms Who are you, coming without flash and standing high on a chair in the doorway? —And who are you, living in this room these twenty years, testy and messy, pitching bibelots more from weariness than from anger— but casting things aside for charity, too? Flannel shadows, caning, a clear old mirror whose "flaws" avert the eye around to the present shiftiness of surviving— I see them where you live, do you? Once I saw a horse rearing so as to fit in a tall glass cabinet in a small bedroom south of Aliceville, Alabama— Gladys Hudson's ceramic palomino among salvaged, crocheted, framed fandangles, shaken rugs, hand-twisted chintz chrysanthemums. Ahorse. And I have no picture . . . In a book, in the dark, at the thinking end of one bedframe, this passage, memorized: A loon swims leisurely in the heart of the stream— 3S 3 6 / O N E : P O R T R A Y A L S seeming to certify the solitude of the place. Who is that flat person slow-kicking with the loon to rest— while the green reserve of the unforgotten is thicker and stiffer than pages of memoir, more rigorous than any camera wall? Is it something to share, the dream one hopes will be so comfortingly spectacular? The light a photographer pinpoints is for diary writing, drawer handles, hide-soled slippers, a single pair. It says, I can't go on being where you are. But look close at the dark in this actual square of your life. I give you back your dream room. You hallucinate beyond me here. ...


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Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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