There was the question of what I heard, and what I saw, and whether any of my lived and felt experience could be trusted to be true. If I was constantly being measured against a barometer I had no access to—a normal for being, a definition for typicality, a standard state of mind and body, even spirit—then how far away from it did I walk in order to decide it as ordinary?
Walking down the nature trail in summertime, in mud puddles, to fetch out terrestrial crustaceans hiding among the reeds, and ruining my white oxfords a little more. Girl, scraping fresh coyote scat off the sidewalk with a stick. Rummaging through a dumpster and bringing back a foot-long dead possum for the class to admire and hold their noses over.
How Rodin’s sculptures are made from bronze casts, and more than one of each statue can exist, so when the copper erodes away into green nobody cares to preserve it, since it has no original definition. We ran through the Degas exhibit to see the rest of the museum after our lengthy tour, and I barely glanced at the pieces that I had thought were so beautiful in class.
pocket camera 