To dangle
metaphors, I’ve been spinning wheels at my home writing desk. Uncertain (more than
usual) and making excuses to myself for why it was I wasn’t getting a lot done –
as in new writing, beyond keeping up my old-school correspondence with friends
and family.
Park Slope is a
mecca for street-abandoned arts and crafts: tables, thrown clay pots, books of
all conceivable types, paintings, you name it.
I’m walking T, our
special needs coonhound mix, when I saw a small wood panel oil painting. It
struck me as being pretty cool – but I was in a hurry and at first went past at a fast pace, T leading.
Then I stopped and
guided T back the half-block to where I picked up the painting, oils of T brown
and scarlet. A still life object in the foreground. The painting fit snugly in
my T string bag I carry that is full of plastic bags and assorted canine
playthings – and off I went to finish my errand.
Now the painting
is tacked to a place of honor above my writing desk. Before putting it up, I
resurrected a photo of me as a young man, serene-looking smile on my lips, my
left hand resting against the cover of “A WRITER’S DIARY,” by Dostoevsky, a
book that brings back a flood of warm memories.
The image is of a
brass lock that has been opened. There is no key, so it would be foolish to
think of it ever being locked …
Next: Running for Your Life: Notes About Coetzee’s “The Schooldays
of Jesus”
