Sunday, September 16, 2012
Pity the poor man at seventy-eight, who wrote of memories galore, His Betz cells he noted of late, have begun to flee through the door. It's all very well if you're twenty-five, Betz cells healthy and sound, Don't take it for granted that you'll survive; hurry to write it all down!
Sunday, September 9, 2012
The crawl space of the house that belongs to the pianist and me is two and a half feet high,labyrinthine in nature, and large. When traversing the labyrinthe on one's belly the pink insulation that hangs loose from aged split bindings brush the face in the dark; movement causes cement dust to stir up a little storm, and the sounds of fluids running in and out the many pipes,ingress and egress, give one's hand a little thrill as the myriad of pipes softly vibrate. Here is a world apart from a house that knows nothing of the workings of the vital and visceral nature from this dark region. There is no area so underestimated in importance as this subterranean world.The heat,the light, the water, the ventilation, the septic system, the internet, the communication all arise from the Action Central,the crawl space. I like being there because it seems like being right at the source, where every thing else hangs in its balance. And yet, the realtors never sing the praises of the crawl space. The purchasers never celebrate the crawl space with its firm foundation. No poet creates a panegyric to this footprint of the house that serves so well unsung. Some may find it arduous and unpleasant to enter the dark world where the possibility of vermin and wasps and bees and ants may coexist. They won't adversely affect Action Central. They just know a good place when they find one. My son-in-law and I just spent an hour in the crawl space, worming our way through the apertures to all the rooms of this underworld; celebrating by prostrating ourselves at the foundations, the wires and pipes and cables and really receiving the emanations of the house, from the bottom up.