secretly, i think
my brother & i are the same person. no, not that: that we are just like two mirrors facing each other, reflecting the same things louder & louder, toward each other, louder, endlessly.
i am just itching to get into my kitschy flannel sheets (with kitschy scenes of sleigh rides & snowball fights, no kidding) with the language instinct (on loan from chris) & just wait for bean to come home. we'll eat pizza & finally set up the donald-judd/anselm-kiefer shelves, & i will put my books into them.
the satisfaction & quiet thrill i get from looking at all the spines of all my books. lining all the spines up into one even face, & placing my palm flat against it. feeling the dip of the spines between books. & stepping back & looking at it all again. (i am a very bad franciscan. so i guess it is good i am not really a franciscan, not in any kind of professed way.)
(tonight at mass he wore his red vestments, for the north american martyrs, & it is just the prettiest color i know.)
i will be sure to put on the new wave records, & to turn on the christmas lights, when we put up the shelves. pictures! there will be pictures.
