Sunday, 30 September 2012
As in a still life, strange objects get deposited in this room. Today, a violin has decided to join in. It slouches inconspicuous like an old-time private investigator against a white wall between a shoe and a baby pickle onion jar. The shoe is an open toe summer job with polka dots. The jar is a third full with shiny things: buttons, pieces of mirror and mother of pearl. The strings of the violin are gone. Just a black neck rising to a piece of wood that curls like the figurehead on an ancient ship. If I was a musician, I'd know the proper names for these things. The sun picks out a perfect cobweb the size of a gramophone record and just as old and dusty. The violin starts to make itself known. It shows me a yellow book filled with sketches of plains illuminated by moonlight. It lights another cigarette and refers me to the glossary.