"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,/And what I assume you shall assume,/For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.//I loafe and invite my soul,/I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass."
I've been meaning to ask you what the strips in the bottle say, and what architectural scene that is with the castle and those sticks in the air. Also, is that a spur?
You know, I understand if you don't feel inclined to divulge. I know I'm really nosy. Some people just shew me away.
Well, then, you probably don't want to know them, the ones that shoo you away, I mean.
The strips in the bottle are random lines of a German translation of H.P. Lovecraft's story "The horror out of Innsmouth." Paperback I found on the street. An experiment.
The postcard is of a fanciful 1917 "acquaforte" print of San Gimignano, the Tuscan hill town of towers that must be seen before death, but only in the afternoon when the hordes of bus-tourists go to Sienna.
Spur? The metal bits are an old nail and some toothed-ring-thing I found on the street. The thorns are from a honeylocust tree in Riverside park. Most of the honey locusts planted on our streets have had the thorns bred out of them. Pity.
3 comments:
I've been meaning to ask you what the strips in the bottle say, and what architectural scene that is with the castle and those sticks in the air. Also, is that a spur?
You know, I understand if you don't feel inclined to divulge. I know I'm really nosy. Some people just shew me away.
Well, then, you probably don't want to know them, the ones that shoo you away, I mean.
The strips in the bottle are random lines of a German translation of H.P. Lovecraft's story "The horror out of Innsmouth." Paperback I found on the street. An experiment.
The postcard is of a fanciful 1917 "acquaforte" print of San Gimignano, the Tuscan hill town of towers that must be seen before death, but only in the afternoon when the hordes of bus-tourists go to Sienna.
Spur? The metal bits are an old nail and some toothed-ring-thing I found on the street. The thorns are from a honeylocust tree in Riverside park. Most of the honey locusts planted on our streets have had the thorns bred out of them. Pity.
I like the vague correspondence of the bottles and towers, which dawned on me slowly. Nice.
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