Re: Wren + Ana: woods
The carnival was even less of a postmark than America was. America, it was made up of parts mixed together. Ana remembered New York a city of cities divided, and she remembered the slow bleed of one culture into the next that would still sit carefully apart, oil and water. The carnival, she'd heard it, no? The music, and the people and it sounded like living separately and together, oil and water. Repose was a small town and even if it liked to drink, she wondered how many people came to a carnival.
She had been to the old kind. The kind that had traveled empty spaces, rather than towns. But Ana, she smiled warmth and pleasure at the acknowledgment of her home. "It does not interrupt the living in the woods." She had been careful, with that. She had built it in large part herself, and with help and she had drawn up plans herself, too.
"You speak French, in the carnival?" She sought an answer to the accent beneath the words, as distinctive and smoky as gunpowder tea. Perhaps the carnival, it traveled as she had when she had been young. Perhaps it was a piece of another world, another country.
"I make pots. Pottery." There were odd creations in the studio, twisted shapes like seaweed, and anemones and shapes made from imagination that were fluid but pinned down in hard clay and fired with rich glazes. Ana waved a hand at the kiln. "In there."