Here is a piece by our good friend Marianne Moore, Three Fifty-Four who will be writing some little pieces for us here and there, since our own literacy skills are questionnable. Hopefully it will make you feel as lovely as we did reading it. Enjoy.
Woolen vested and black stockinged, she slipped out her front door without anyone noticing. Of course, no one had lived with her to notice for almost a year now. That didn't stop her from sneaking in when she got home late, or rolling her ciggarettes in a locked bathroom and smoking them beside the red-brick pillar behind her apartment block.
Where she was going on this particular outing, nobody properly knew.
Where she ended up, however, was a botanical garden, wandering about in the light rain and taking pictures of twisted trees and fragmented flowers. Her photography skills were not brilliant, but then again neither was the beauty of the trees or the fragrance of the flowers. And so she wandered.
Past a thousand crying Twiggys and dozens of standstone walls, past the sheltered displays and the books - so many books - ordered and shelved. And nothing of particular interest happened to this girl today, just like nothing of particular interest happens to you or me. This girl is, indeed, all of us. Wandering alone, not quite brilliant; "I feel some faith in that cosmic link." Maybe that girl snuck in, recovered some wine from its usual hiding place and started a blog of all the things that made her happy.
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