How often do we walk along a road or a street and notice an article of clothing hanging up, begging to find its owner? I seem to see it with some frequently - the lost sweatshirt, hat, sock, or shoe, hanging on a fence, a bush or merely lounging on the sidewalk, anticipating a living soul to stick an appendage or a head into its living space and fill it with a soul, a being to move, bend, run or walk and give this piece of cloth or rubber or wool a life. It saddens me when I see a hat squashed into the leaves or jammed into the corner of a curb, as I saw this one the other rainy day, but lo! This morning I find to my delight that some gentle soul had lifted it from his soggy existence on the ground up onto theses lively red leaves of a bush, dangling jauntily as if the hat belonged. Somewhere. Something about pavement, street, floors that suggests death. Raise up that cap, tuck it onto a burning bush, and suddenly possibilities abound. The dew just dusts the top edge, but otherwise, I can just imagine a man on his daily walk, coming upon the cap, looking furtively about him before he gently takes it in his hand, turns it slowly around, estimating the size of his head, flicking off the lingering dew and securing it neatly onto his head. He would then turn and walk with a little skip in his step, feeling sartorial from the very top of his head, and walking all along the Wissahickon, whistling as he went.
I set these little fellows up to dry and rest together and realized that they were probably already communicating with each other. Look at the orange side on the tall right piece of wood as it speaks to the orange front of the little middle guy who has a deliciously pink head of thread. Tracy wants to group her wooden paintings together, but I hope she will bring along the stray little guy. He's not yet finished, but I think he has promise... Isn't that really was all life is about? Promise?
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