Root Cellar

 

October 5, 2021

Realize when I go out at evening and the front door is still locked that I have not left the house all day. 

Binge-watched a Christo-Gothic Netflix production, Midnight Mass to 3 AM. Disturbing on so many levels, but also congenial, as I recognized the tenor of my own imagination so often in that of the writer’s. . .  even the tendency to long exploratory monologs. 

Spring birds back again, I suppose to reap the harvest of the seeds they watched me plant. 

Memory: the root cellar my father had installed at the back of the garage on Goodview Avenue, the dank smell of it. Turns out it was never a very good place to store vegetables, which succumbed quickly to mildew. My father must have remembered such a thing with wonder from his own past. My father was an artist who never thought to use the word to describe himself.