Weep no more, little love-notes, your shoebox homes are safe from Dewey's decimals.
I have found a prettier way to index.///////////////////
ee cummings
///////////////////
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
—before leaving my room
i turn, and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.
we three. Mom calls us her patitos or her pollitos.
On the Met website they have up a most comforting, personal audio-visual tour. It’s a curator telling her stories and free-associations about “small things” in the Met’s holdings! Her narration reminds me of my experiences going to museums with Mom—always the token afterwards, which I, too, could fit in my pocket; more often than not a tiny animal (especially the scarab beads, so painful to part with even in adulthood), or miniaturized replica of large-scale artwork. Touching in the audio how the woman’s voice changes (the real breaks through) when she’s talking about the Bolivian poncho, small enough for a Barbie to wear, and also her smooth recovery of polish by redesribing it as an artist’s maquette. Love maquettes too, both as concept and word. Some people are miniaturists, I guess. This explains the Met watch I got on my last visit (without Mom)—my fate was sealed by the tiny hippo trapped in endless circles around the watch face. The hippo mesmerized me, I swear! Because, get this, it’s a miniaturized version of the already miniaturized figure. I’ve known the original’s name, William, since I was nine; murmur it like an incantation whenever I’m in the Egyptian wing. It’s not waterproof, my new watch, so it’s also an endless pain. But it’s a small thing that makes me happy. Foggy ticktock recalling happy, early memories: my family’s alltogether adventures in New York.
