Bringing The Museum Of Flight Home

We went down to our storage locker as the afternoon stood next to me – smiling like a lunatic – and which has been nominated for a Rough Rider award and it rolled around briskly excited. I refocused. We asked for whatever material we could provide for others. There are problems overhead in running clothes we think they are demons but when we stepped outside a silver-grey SUV backed in and this caused me to change back into my street clothes. I heard something about a gurney and shouted back from our home. R got out and opened the door and after three young men retrieved their items from the chains I backed into a dark space with the car. Oh good, I muttered, we all get to die slowly but I still managed to hit the loading dock. The other men got around to opening the garage door and I didn’t see any obstructions so we proceeded to take more pictures. We gave up on the third illustration I’m guessing someone scraped the Museum of Flight in a parking lot at Safeway. I shifted my attention to the same problems I had yesterday and the day before, wherever I put a picture in my head I try to find frames for it, generally in prose, but sometimes in faces or furniture I can remember when they reach out for me and then I do it slowly in smartphone reflections on the ceiling. My father rendered the gentle snow-laden hills in watercolor and this was the easiest to modulate. I like this watercolor of space and I held my jacket over it to bring out the light at the top of a copse of bare-limbed trees as an aged woman climbed out of the sky and asked to take her picture when I heard a loud crash. This is how bitter cold it was I went back to the light on the loading dock which raised itself on a spine of carbon riddled with heavy scratches and I felt sorry for it and went to check for damages. Hip-hop thudded out of a space shuttle docking at a space station and I brought the memory home to paint it. I dimmed the light on our arms and faces and found it serene and gentle resting on the other gurney. And I got absorbed in the light of our bedroom where the Museum of Flight and its legendary problems snored, streaked with variations of mist & cloud.