Thursday, July 19, 2007

He's in his forge, the tiny wooden building's window glowing orange, but static, no movement in the light, as if trapped and blurred in a photograph. And I feel like a camera. I'm a witness device, recording something happening at dusk, as if this is a particular day. Always with him, ice and gravel cracking under foot. I take some evidence, an inventory: carpenter's musk; manipulated tin; rust colored paint; talk and tedium; dinner in the near future; a bench; blood/blushing; blue sweater tattoo. Wherever we move, he and I are always the same distance from one another, I begin to suspect. I test this every way I know-- which involves saying and listening and other things, smaller and making less sense-- and find that it's true. The exact distance seems to be constant, no matter what.