at redhill, the train stops everyday as it takes me to and from my place of work: lumbering machines nod their yellow, molluscine appendages slowly over some sort of excavation, and the exhumed earth is the color of a fishmarket floor, the sharp bouquet of blood and detergent sticking to the roof of your mouth as the dregs intersect with the water from some custodian's hose; or, less shocking if no more dramatic: finely ground rose petals, Gallicas and Chinas and Hybrid Teas, reds and whites, pinks and a hint of dark ash and orange and burgundy, all caught murmuring at the moment of atomization.
it's there i realize what an idiot i am for not having had the foresight to prepare for today.
it may be a manufactured holiday, but isn't meaning, after all, and all the truths we imagine we understand nothing more than constructions?
sorry for being a deadbeat, Mabel.
with love always,
c
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