| me on my scooter, taken by caleb
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| Andrew Franklin Spear [II, III, IV]
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| Celeste. She’s pretty much a pixie.
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| she lives in a house that was built in 1841 by french immigrants who were particularly fond of fleurs des li's and stone walkways. the whole campus, modest though it may be, is filled with miniature excursions into forests of weeds and thought--and it is here that she spends most all of her time. there are wombs in the grass and vines that welcome her with her books and pencils and phonograph. she reads and writes and is filled with classical goodness. she paints and dreams. she breathes. very often she dips into the stream in the back and lets her toes play scout and gives her ears some well-deserved acupuncture with the prickly pins created by the water hitting rocks nearby. simply feeling the water flow around her and occassionally have it tug at her leg, trying to get her to come down stream a bit. floating for hours and becoming more like a raisin every day. i think she'd like to be a fruit. possibly a bird or a skipping rock. she draws in fresh air and draws out lines that form her own face and then turn into bright colors and happy turtles and sad children and glorious towns, possibly made entirely of good will.
all of the work--paintings, drawings, letters, delicate new sheet musics--are singed simply with a rubbing of the smallest of the french flowers that once was attached the main gate. now it rests on her side table with a worn wax pencil. |
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