|
The Tulip Skirt I woke up this morning And thought,’ I am lost.’ There was a thin crack of light through the wooden doors an orange glow where the wood had split; the sun on the Grand Canyon. I am overwhelmed by geography (gave it up in the third form) afraid of the call of a spinning world. Now the sound of pee splashing on plastic (this despised commode) is a stream in Moulin – I remember it clearly, the water ice cold and up to my calves. Laughter. This hole in the wall with its French doors and a sliver of light opens onto a space that is all that I know now – a museum of artefacts bequeathed by others – my favourites are an aboriginal dreamscape and my daughter’s lovely smile gracing the Pacific ocean. These days Foucault is filed on top of The Next catalogue - I was researching the history of madness but got waylaid by the thought of a tulip skirt and the debate as to whether one would be daft to wear such a thing when approaching fifty five. |