The Eyes in the Cellar It has something
to do with the womb, or the tomb. (Who's buried in Grant's tomb anyway?)
My head always clears whenever I descend the stairs and come face to fact
with the subtle cool that can maintain so much. This time it reminded
me of the evening I thought of curling up in my mummy bag in the wine
cellar, retending it was a cocoon, and then hoped for a metamorphosis
of some sort...but, naw, let's not get into that one. Anyway, there before
me in the short, approachable distance was the wine rack holding all my
sleeping patience, the matrix of choice. And after I made my slow decision
and uncorked one, her face returned to me in all its healthy fullness.
On one of the first warm days of the season she had been sitting there
at the corner of the Game Room as I walked in. A couple of guys were shooting
pool in the corner, but they were not distracted. She looked up from a
tray of 50¢ drafts. She struck me as an unpretentious blend of at
least two nations that could not be pinned down: June 2002 |