I drove to Vermont from D.C. last week, to check on things. I went to Middlebury to visit friends and noticed that the town no longer existed. Main Street, Lolly-pop Land, had erased itself in an effort to be cute. There were many windows with snow suits, beads, cow mugs, folk singer posters. I decided to take a window hostage for a new Word Window Art Installation Project. Doug Lazarus, artist, had just opened a new gallery/studio on Main Street, and one of his windows faced an acceptable stream of pedestrian and car traffic. We discussed the project for four minutes and he gave me the window. I will be posting a continual stream of words in phrases for the next few months which will reflect the subtext of Middlebury and, in totality, when published, act as an artistic rendering of the collective unconscious of the area. My last Word Window was in Newport, RI in 1998, and became quite popular with the locals and police force. An example of a Word Window in Newport: You Are Not Your Car. I look forward to this art project, because I don’t have to stay in Vermont to do it. I will mail Doug the words and he will post them . I can simply lay in bed and think up phrases after reading the Middlebury newspaper and talking to artists in the area who will act as conduits for me.
I drove to Vermont with a man and I would like to tell you, now that he is gone, what happened, but I cannot because I am not sure myself. I only know that I am tortured by the many photos of my parents. On the desk, the wall, the piano. Now that I am alone with the ten-thousand dollar dog, the cottage feels like a mausoleum. It is not my home, although I now own it. It is theirs. It will always be theirs and there is nothing I can do about it, nor do I care to. The white quiet is deafening, the memories unbearably burdensome. All the days of before, without the comforting illusion youth provides — there are many days ahead. I am caught in the white quiet, like a fly in a web, and I know that it will close in until my breathe is shallow and my supressed grief has resurfaced. The lake is frozen solid and I can walk to New York. It was a skating rink until last night, when a new snow lay three inches of powder. Those inches of snow hang heavy on the evergreens and fence. I am thankful that he is gone so that I can talk to the white quiet, and ask what happened.