Most of the time I spend with Clarke is wordless. Ten minutes of silence, and then a few words, then ten more silent minutes. That's about the rhythm. I read through my old Clarke entries on this blog recently and realized all I've written so far is our talking. 'Cos what else can I do? But it's not like that. Not really. Mostly we sit and drink and smoke and think our own thoughts.
"I'd make a good hermit," Clarke told me last night. I was on my way out the door after an unusually conversationless evening.
"You are a hermit, Clarke."
"Yeah, Leonore thought so too." He looked at me knowingly. "She always wanted to go out, be out, get out. But I'd much rather sit on the sofa, drunk, at home."
“I met a hermit once,” I said. “When I spent that summer logging up north. He grew potatoes in an oil barrel. He was really nice."
"I couldn't be alone with Leonore. She wanted me to share my thoughts with her. All of them. That's why there're no female hermits."
"Goodnight Clarke,” I said laughing.
“Goodnight.”
I shut the door and walked home. I was glad to be there, alone.
5 comments:
enjoyable chapter!
I only planned on watching the first minute of the video, but 10 minutes later I had seen the whole thing.
Just to see the shot of his hands at the 8 minute mark - totally worth it.
Yeah, that shot is really something.
I suppose the female equivalent of hermit is anchoress - of which there were many in the Middle Ages, though I don't know about now. Women couldn't be trusted out in the wilderness, alone, because of their innately sexual and feeble nature. But they could be locked up in a closet for their entire life.
Just sayin'. I enjoyed this.
nice post. thanks.
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