Last night I dreamt I was in a Northern town. I was working in my friend Alex Brigden's barn in Quesnel and it was an old wooden building that had holes and cracks in the walls and sunlight shone through. The sunlight revealed my projects were made of rawhide and diaphanous placental forms. Each shone golden and reflected off one another. Sawdust was on the floor and I could smell the stinging of the pine. Kept wondering if Alex knew he had bought my Grandfather Maxwell John's barn.
Tiny sweaters were hung on the wall all over the barn. they looked like little men climbing the walls. Each one was unravelling on the left sleeve and the common unravellings joined and formed a ball. Like electric wires neatly cascading and carefully wound together.
Faux rawhide cords were hammered into planks of wood like a sixties beaded curtain without the beads. To keep the bugs away. They were twenty feet long and hung to the ground. They reminded me of proper lassos. Proper reins. I could only smell the remnants of a horse. And thought I heard Dolly and Dan in their stall. But they were long dead. I wondered if it might be Tiki, but remembered that she would be sixty two and that horses rarely lived that long.
The air was cold and stung my face and nostrils. The bears had not been fed and required tending but I reminded myself that tending them would create a bigger difficulty. More would come and I couldn't yet see the ones that were there.
I made tables from the wood that was so damaged from the pine beetle. They also shone golden in the barn. They signified that gold mine table that my father used for his washing station. In camp. The extra wood needed to be piled ready for burning. Rocks needed to be collected and understood. They were wrapped in sheep skin leather and tied with cords I made from inner bark.
There was no lack but the melancholy that childhood reminiscence brings.
Tiny sweaters were hung on the wall all over the barn. they looked like little men climbing the walls. Each one was unravelling on the left sleeve and the common unravellings joined and formed a ball. Like electric wires neatly cascading and carefully wound together.
Faux rawhide cords were hammered into planks of wood like a sixties beaded curtain without the beads. To keep the bugs away. They were twenty feet long and hung to the ground. They reminded me of proper lassos. Proper reins. I could only smell the remnants of a horse. And thought I heard Dolly and Dan in their stall. But they were long dead. I wondered if it might be Tiki, but remembered that she would be sixty two and that horses rarely lived that long.
The air was cold and stung my face and nostrils. The bears had not been fed and required tending but I reminded myself that tending them would create a bigger difficulty. More would come and I couldn't yet see the ones that were there.
I made tables from the wood that was so damaged from the pine beetle. They also shone golden in the barn. They signified that gold mine table that my father used for his washing station. In camp. The extra wood needed to be piled ready for burning. Rocks needed to be collected and understood. They were wrapped in sheep skin leather and tied with cords I made from inner bark.
There was no lack but the melancholy that childhood reminiscence brings.
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