(no subject)
i got a bit keyholed on saturday. on sunday i stopped to admire a flowerbed in the neighborhood and when i looked down (beneath my ol' lady shopping/walking cart) there was a pile of five rusted keys. those are the two prettiest.
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
- e.e. cummings, poem 4 from 'collected works'
...learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor...
- Ginsberg, 'Kaddish'
>>
---> a better closeup of the detail the day after
once when i was a little (maybe barely 10), my mom dreamt about a blue, glowing door that she knew without a doubt was locked, yet she was desperate to get to the other side. when she told little-me this dream, i reportedly replied with some exasperation,
"why were you so worried? there's nothing on the other side that's not accessible to you here."
For months my hand had been sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
- Anne Sexton, 'The Touch'
This is the key to it.
This is the key to everything.
Preciously.
- 'The Breast'
PEE ESS petroldarling, weetziefae post your key-ish tatts in ze comments. i for some reason want to look at us rusted bunch, all at once.