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fyn gula
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inside the writing cottage it was the kind of cozy that you always wanted to duplicate at your own house but you know you couldn't because there is a comfort that comes from years of being.
anyway, the old man showed helin around and she was all wide-eyed, looking at everything, touching with respect, asking, "what's this?" or "where did you get those?" or "who is the lady in the foto with you?" the old man was impressed with her genuine interest, secretly wishing he could have been as inquisitive in his youth, never realizing he was because fascinating dwellings usually result from passionate upbringings. at least there seems to be some kind of connection.
he was eager to show her his collection of found papers. and so, he led her to a pine board shelf where various books and homemade cooperative games were kept. there were also a few knickknack type things he had probably made himself, like little clay fired people of which helin thought looked very similar to anton, maylay, nabiscus, and nimbia. although, she didn't say anything.
the old man brought down a brass box about forty centimeters square that he had bought in antigua. there was a sun pounded into it and delicate flower ornamentation surrounding it.
"nice." helin said, as he set it down on a table that had a top made from an intricate mosaic design of a horse, flower, and a fish. "hmm." helin mused. "copello would love this."
there were then breathy little hushes from helin, happy, explosive exasperations as the old man brought forth papers he had found from the giving ground over the years of his searching, some fifty-two.
the first one being a poem from
edna st.vincent millay written on a lipstick-stained napkin he found back in 1925.
"i am waylaid by beauty," helin read.
"who will walk between me and the crying of the frogs? oh savage beauty. suffer me to pass. i am a tired woman on her way from one house to another."
"savage beauty," the old man said, and he spoke with the authority of having read and memorized much of the controversial woman's works. helin smiled, not only because she loved poetry, but she was fascinated by the way the old man's eyes squinted with satisfaction. a look of contentment that only the artistry of beautiful words can paint on the face.
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010920
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