Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Spell (with Tania P)

Perhaps to assemble the letters that make up the name of a thing, in the correct order, is to effect a magic. The land speaks through us as we travel across it – the rustle of grasses, the mystery of a paw print in damp soil, the whisper of trees, water, moths and mud. But be careful: there’s a cipher attached to that string.

Maybe letters, like ladders, give rooftop transport, the means to change out a lightbulb on a darkening porch, attic access to trunks full of envelopes stamped with the o's of foreign postmarks. Best gripped by a pair of hands at the base, bearing without comment the weight of thieves and lovers alike on their way to the unlocked window behind which, each is convinced, rests the holy grail in the shape of a thing to pawn, or a girl.

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