Although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all..
and sometimes in private, my kitchen,
your kitchen, my face, your face.
- Anne Sexton
Tuesday and Wednesdays I'm a grass widow. On those days our kitchen
(which is joint with the living room and connected by that large old fireplace),
is mostly photographs, coffee cups, camera and different ways of relating to light.
I think of all the kitchens I've lived in and how I'd love to travel back
in time with my camera to revisit them, with the insight of today,
of how breathtaking it was. So imperfectly perfect.
The heart of the home, the clearest rooms of my inner images,
in the otherwise quite obscure corridors of my memory.
Love is two people dancing in a kitchen when no one sees.
And sometimes, in rooms of my own, in private,
more and more often now, I think that it's too much,
that my kitchen is your kitchen, Your face, my face.
That we've become more devoid of identity the more we've shared.
That I now completely devour when someone shares something
that is real, that is even a bit dark, as if was I starving.
How do I lift the veil, how do I hold on to the core..?
For the photographs, the words, the images; those I've loved since
long before. I'm thinking that if we share almost only what
easily blends in, that which can be bought or prescribed,
then what have we got..? My kitchen, your kitchen, my face,
Your face. And a veil in between.
(which is joint with the living room and connected by that large old fireplace),
is mostly photographs, coffee cups, camera and different ways of relating to light.
I think of all the kitchens I've lived in and how I'd love to travel back
in time with my camera to revisit them, with the insight of today,
of how breathtaking it was. So imperfectly perfect.
The heart of the home, the clearest rooms of my inner images,
in the otherwise quite obscure corridors of my memory.
Love is two people dancing in a kitchen when no one sees.
more and more often now, I think that it's too much,
that my kitchen is your kitchen, Your face, my face.
That we've become more devoid of identity the more we've shared.
That I now completely devour when someone shares something
that is real, that is even a bit dark, as if was I starving.
How do I lift the veil, how do I hold on to the core..?
For the photographs, the words, the images; those I've loved since
long before. I'm thinking that if we share almost only what
easily blends in, that which can be bought or prescribed,
then what have we got..? My kitchen, your kitchen, my face,
Your face. And a veil in between.
x
image no1 | from our kitchen
image no 2 & 3 | parts of LINES from our Lemholt N' Bergman
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