not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Sunday, October 20, 2013


in my grandmother's attic there was a jettisoned pile of old tarps, not plastic but leather.  under the tarps was a trunk.  and in the trunk - well, i'll never know.  but my grandmother locked the attic door and folded up the ladder and carried it with great labour (she was bow legged), out across her yard and into her barn to rest inside the last unused stall, bits of hay or dust nudged aloft in the process and biting at the light in the air, each time she retrieved or placed anything from or into the attic.  this is how i know there are secrets.


  1. secerets... or stories.

    i hope i leave an attic worth exploring.

  2. shhh! listen to the whirling wind, it too has its secrets

  3. When I first read this (yesterday?) I felt I had nothing to add.

    Today I realize I must affirm this. This process, this observation, this way of knowing your world.

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  5. my grandmother lived in a bungalow. there was no attic. there were no tarps and there was no trunk, but I can bargain that there were plenty of secrets, but perhaps not the personal ones that we imagine. who could know now? she is long dead and along with her her stories and her secrets.

    but what intrigues me is that there are secrets. doesn't everything suggest this? even this leaf? in one instance it is visually what it appears to be, a leaf, and yet in the next instant under the influence of light and movement doesn't it waver and suggest it might be something else, or something that we don't at first see? how often do we do this, make assumptions based on the sensory confirmation that we had in the past? what secrets in the universe are hiding from us in plain sight?


  6. What secrets of the Universe are hiding in plain sight? Ohhh. Indeed. Most likely, everything we ever wanted or needed, but there, just hovering, beyond the veil. Such a timely thought for this bend in the year, the quieting of the earth for winter.

    I thought the story of your grandmother may have been literal. But whether or not it is, the essences and trails of her secrets are there, hiding in the trunk of consciousness.


"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))