While the art store is always exceedingly peaceful, the morning shift is downright worshipful. The sun bars in through the windows warming the stock room and I, perched on one ladder or another, catalog and fill the shelves with what will one day be the stuff of other worlds. Even the cabs are quiet - not yet filling the street with the ire - and if I stand still, I can hear the doves calling to one another in the rafters. Maybe even a sparrow who trills, waiting for his beloved to return to the nest.
As it is, I am exceedingly prone to enjoy my morning shifts. I did not experience such peace in Sibleys - always the hawking of wares, there - but perhaps I have a comparable experience. Mist (or phosgene - but let's say mist) hung on the trenches those early spring mornings. Before the Morning Hate - just after being roused for inspection - the thrushes would swarm the pitiful trunks of the trees that stood sentinel in No Man's Land. Sometimes, I'd close my eyes and listen to that song and imagine myself somewhere else.
Home in Shropshire, maybe. Or in some Thracian glen. I even imagined myself as John on the Heath, waiting for Fanny to come home. I never imagined an art supply store in New York City. Sometimes, we've got to be prepared to be surprised.
But really I'm writing to ask all of you if you received (or saw) the flier inviting we refugees to a charity gathering at a church? A dark haired woman was handing them out ... I saw her in Sam's when I stopped to pick up lunch. She seemed nice, if a bit circumspect.
“The reason is that all you know about me is what I have written so far; it has nothing to do with what I want to do next, because I don’t know, either.”
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