Small Boxes

A handsome mahogany cigar chest with nothing in it but the humidor apparatus. I put it away in the Chinese trunk, which is a jumble and makes me deeply uneasy, papers, small boxes, a wadded up baby afghan. Someone ought to straighten it up but this is not the moment. I set the box in on top of the mess, hoping it doesn't stick up too high and interfere with the missing tray. A large rectangular space that could be either a lawn or a swimming pool. Oppressive paternal authority lurking about. The feeling attached to the symbol, the symbolism obscure, random, meaningless, meaninglessness itself a symbol attached to a feeling. Inescapable circle, reality itself, consciousness perched like a bird on a twig. The tree itself growing, dying, the air and light ever changing, not always navigable or comfortable. Get used to it.