Wednesday, February 18, 2009

a boy in a plaid woolrich shirt

Bottle caps from parking lots behind convenience stores, bottle caps from schoolyards, bottle caps saved from bars, both significant evenings and those of a more mundane tone. Bottle caps presented as gifts from childhood friends, from great aunts, from second cousins twice removed, from trips abroad to Russia, to Budapest, to Mexico, to Canada, from lonely all-night road trips across the desolate wastelands of Kansas cornfields, from UFO sighting weekends in Utah, from commemorative speeches at fairs and from marketing launches for the next great thing.
Bottle caps rusty and shiny, bottle caps flattened by forces beyond sustainability, bottle caps standing pristine in their shape, each ridge a miracle of machined regularity. Bottle caps in hues of blues, reds, silvers, yellows; fewer greens, fewer purples, fewer pinks. Logos and symbols and trademarks and insignia flashing against the sunlight drifting across the room.

Trying to find the first orchid sequence in Swann in Love. Must learn time management.

a dusting of late winter snow