Thursday, October 28, 2010
Few are chosen
A child’s doll has died. At his request, I ask his mother for permission to conduct a funeral service in a language no one understands. This she grants. The doll is in a shoe box, beneath a fastened lid. Sunlight finds us in the street outside. A lone trumpet: inside the box, the doll begins to sing.
Recently Linked: My thanks to a dear friend, who is as close to perfect as they come.
Update:
In the Forum: everything is growing dim.
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14 comments:
oh, lovely.
Thank you, Gigi.
Perfect! ;O)
The amount of detail you can recall in these entries is amazing. I'm presuming they're dreams but if you'd rather not comment on that, I understand.
I assume everyone did understand the language of the trumpet and the doll's song. This eerie oniric snippet for some reason reminded me of wandering through Naples and coming across the marvelous Ospedale delle Bambole, literally a hospital for old dolls. Their website seems to not be running at present, but there are good photos at http://cabinet-of-wonders.blogspot.com/2008/08/ospedale-delle-bambole.html.
Wonder wonder wonderful fairy - make my mind singing too - outside the box! That's WILLIAM pure, I love it! Would like to paint about it, really...
Perfect, Aleksandra? As much so, I hope, as your lovely winking comment. Thank you!
Kevin, everything I file under the Dreams label is indeed a dream — some of which, as this one, continue, or so it seems, for a short time after I waken. And so the trumpet and voice were heard in the dark, after I’d put my feet on the floor.
My, my, Lorenzo — that is an amazing entry. What an intriguing place. Also: the street was empty, and no one else was in attendance.
Rudhi, thank you. I hope you do paint it. I would love to see the dream transformed by your light touch....
Enfance retrouvée...
Interesting.... childhood lost, childhood found....
lieber William, es ist schön zu lesen, es tut gut, liebe Grüße von Jasmin...
Thank you, Jasmin.
This is one of your most magical pieces, William. The first sentence transports us, and the rest, step by step, help us levitate. Up there, even an old curmudgeon like me can hear that doll singing.
Spare, lovely, haunting, a shaft of brilliant fall sunlight.
Thank you, my friend.
Joe, thanks. I appreciate that. And I can see it in the papers now: “Floating curmudgeon hears singing doll.”
Paul, I thank you — for everything.
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