‘Where can you be found’ is a question often asked. But where you find me depends on my mood. Where does one find wind.  Where does one find the north star. Where are syllables found?  You might find a pair of boots in the ditch, or an orphan child. Perhaps a silk cravatte soaked in sweat and eau de cologne. But more likely you’ll find that with the changing of the wind the hemisphere shifts. The star outside your window smirks.  You’ll find words dribbling from your mouth slightly differently. Softer – here yesterday, goo today. Staler – airy today, porous tomorow. And the cycle goes on, clack-clack knitting needles knitting a shawl of metaphors. Well I can knit a good ol’ shawl. If you need soup and a shawl, come to mine. I’ll make a stew for you, humming to the hard little flames that refuse to die in this damp climate. 

My main trade, however, is book peddling.  I sell periodicals, serials, leather-bound atlases, travel tales, religious texts, histories, and navigation maps.  Find me in my caravan…find trails of loose paper where Crenshaw, my pet raven, has dragged leaflets of Edgar Allen Poe (his favorite author).  He is reading ‘The Conqueror Worm’ one page at a time…sometimes he brings back a page he has finished perusing on some high perch overlooking London-town. Other days he forgets and the pidgeons, who have no respect for book learning, giggle at the long words.  You may see them dash beneath fountain water at Picadilly Circus mouthing,

 ‘Motley drama!’ 

 ‘A blood-red thing!’

 ‘It writhes!- it writhes!-‘. 

They cackle rauscously, beaks splitting open until one of them tips backwards into the basin.  The death of Fred brings reason back to pidgeon-brain, however temporary this may be.

I alternate between caravan and coffee houses. Since last November I’ve been frequenting Assaf’s coffee house, a fine red place of Persian carpets and green glass china.  Dim candelabras and bolts of Turkish coffee rearrange the atmosphere between fading and glowing. I’ve been aquainted with two backgammon players and they have several times specified rules on paper napkins, which Crenshaw inevitably destroys with his greasy after-dinner claws. Meticulous bird.


One Response to “”

  1. ladyoctober Says:

    When I returned home this evening, I found that I had left the lattice open and that Crenshaw had flown in and taken up a place amidst the shadows of my bookshelf. He was darker that I remebered; for just a moment I thought that his feathers were stitched from the darkness itself. I was not sure that he remembered me, but it was good to see a souvenir of your memory, for I have not seen you in such a long time.
    If I am not mistaken, yesterday was your birthday and so, I attached a length of ribbon to Crenshaw’s talon. Did you recieve this when he returned to you?
    I shall keep my window open from now on, for I do so hope that I will get a chance to see him once more…

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