and then we’ll understand, we held gold dust in our hands

1 11 2002

baking apple pies this morning, listening to tori (finally got scarlet’s walk in its entirety tuesday night, and have listened to nothing else since…) and she’s still all that she’s always been–she knows more about everything i know than i do, and somehow in all her rainy cities still i think she also knows more about apple pies, but they smell right even if they look a little funny, and everyone at the party i’m taking them too will be too drunk before the fete is over to remember if the apple pies were funny looking. i’m also thinking about iconography, my own, primarily, and whether or not it’s out of line to get permission from someone before you turn him/her into one… since we’re making one another into icons in our heads all the time anyway, of course, and can’t help ourselves, but when you want to keep them, shouldn’t you let those whose lives you’re borrowing to meld into your own be aware of the fact? flour and sugar, salt and cinnammon, nutmeg and green apples, red apples, yellow ones like harvest moons, their flesh already melting when they’re first opened up, but the red stay bone-white and severe, the green otherworldly and moonlit even in a grey-dawn kitchen.
the sun on your face; i’m freezing that frame.
you know who you are. (although you always try not to believe it… i’d give a year to have a day at 17 of skipping school with you to race around the reflecting pool…)

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One response

4 11 2002
cwalters

Slice it up
Does the apple know what you are doing when you slice into it and meld it’s existence into that of the cinnamon and flour? Yet when you do so, is the product of their union not far more scrumptious and wholly unlike what was used as the starting point? (and I wish I could enjoy a warm slice ala mode with you!) Just don’t make the pie your icon 😉

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