Thursday, January 22, 2009
mask, worried, Milton
A splash of black paint becomes a mask. The mask of Rorschach?
In a close up photograph of a cow's head, there is look of alarm. The white of its eye describes a half moon above the iris, as though the animal is trying to see what is happening behind it.
Thinking about books to which I am attached not just because of their content, I often come back to the Oxford University Press, World Classics edition of the English Poems of John Milton. Its board cover is a faded, navy blue, - battered but still holding together. I have owned it for as long as I can remember, certainly since my schooldays. Though it contains so much that I want to return to, it can fit comfortably into my pocket and has done on many occasions, yet its print seems as easy to read as when I first set eyes on it.
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A faded red Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, it's spine flops in my palm, the pages open randomly to draw me in.
Stolen, or liberated, from a middle school library, when D realized it had not been checked out in his lifetime. It's found a loving home with us.
Love the Rorschach.
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