~come ona my house~

November 11th, 2006

This morning I hear a car pull in front of my studio. It must have been the door slamming shut that woke me. Feet crunch closer and then a knock at my door. No one is allowed to visit another’s studio uninvited. I think “Yay! They’ve come to deliver wood!” I’ve been out for a week, and it’s a bummer. I mean, bummer relatively, in paradise.

A cell phone rings. A very foreign sound. A woman’s voice answers. I pad downstairs and peek through the glass on my front door. A lovely gal waves to me and I disappear to the kitchen to make coffee and allow her to finish the conversation. I have not missed cell phones at all. There is a romance to the wooden phone booth I curl up in for my pre-dinner conversations. It’s true I was recently teased for saying “I love you, Grandpa!” but you know, even as a crab I would gladly give up some privacy, to never hear the “I’m on 1st and Houston.” phone reports again. I pine for a time before people could walk though the woods and make appointments, however cheerfully.

Even the internet activity I relish seems odd here. That we gather on three delicious leather couches around a fire (even Colony Hall is without wood) and check email on our laptops seems anti-social. We all comment on it, laugh, and go back to our screens. Its only for an hour, the one before dinner, after dinner it is an unspoken etiquette that one talk to those around, playing pool and ping pong, or like me, attaining new levels of loaf of that couch, and not those in the ether.

Last night X (name withheld to protect the innocent) recounted a past stay here and some horrible person who blogged about it! Imagine! The collective groan was one voice shy. But this gal was a journalist doing that Inside MacDowell thing, entering verbatim private conversations, forever google-able, not witnessing her own head exploding.

The woman knocks again and I answer. She says, “I think perhaps we should reschedule.” My disoriented look prompts her. “The photograph?” They make a portrait of everyone here, for the annual report and publicity material. Artists in their natural habitat.

I look down at her feet and see a tripod and light kit. I look at my Chinese silk robe and dragon-covered slippers. “Or we could do it in this!”, I say, “I am sorry, I thought my shoot was next Wednesday at noon.”

“It was rescheduled. Didn’t you get the note in your box? I’m Joan, by the way. I’m so sorry I woke you!” We take turns being apologetic and laughing. I never got the note in my box for this shoot or the original time. I happened to notice myself on the calendar. We agree I will keep the robe and slippers handy.

Yesterday I had other visitors. I was in the tub, taking a break between the morning and afternoon sessions of my first attempt at write Lilly in first person, the autobiography of Miss La France as remembered while convalescing in a mental hospital in India in 1933. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to have a good time.

The windows along the tub are open wide, I love the feeling of the cool fall air on my skin, and the steam that rises from the water. A single deer loiters in the meadow, looking startled each time I slosh. I say, “Heeeellllooooo!” to no response.

I dip down to rinse my hair, and when I come up I see, in the meadow, stage left, a large bird coming from the wings, which in this case is a thicket of trees. It climbs over my stone wall, and slowly creeps its way to center stage. A wild turkey!

Then another appears, then another. It’s like some stage mother is in charge of pacing, it’s uneven, but with dramatic pauses between each arrival. Seventeen birds file on stage and mill about, towns people to the ingénue, the single dear. I lean out of the tub to gawk, enchanted.
I have heard the terrible noises they make into the dark, still night, but they had not yet graced me with their full performance. They came to mark my half-way point, I arrived two weeks ago this evening, and will leave in thirteen days, twelve, really. Tonight we will have a non-party for the birthday of Mary G.

I think today I will gather some wood.


One Response to “~come ona my house~”

  1. Habib says:

    When do we get to see your portrait?
    You should go to the meadow where the turkeys were hanging out and look for feathers. Turkey feathers symbolize wisdom and the creative force to many native american tribes.

Powered by WordPress. Theme by Sash Lewis.