Cleo Gordon
Untitled: A Question
A bell to ask a wordless question, and a little song too! I wonder about memory, and where it lives before it is recollected in running water. I wonder what water makes of the bell's vibration, and how it is moved. Sometimes in caves (and certainly in a cave nearby, damp like this one), a company called Iron Mountain hides secrets and valuables for other compames, and even for important people, all in hard copy, in boxes, and bats lay their eggs on them. Anyone can hide things, if they have the money. Anyone can buy a box. Industrial strength dehumidifiers dry out the damp. I wonder about caves filled with varying degrees of important secrets and imagine bad, bad movies. I once asked a waterfall if I could ask it a question. My face was damp, and my pants were damp with spray from the crashing water. I felt like I might die, so I didn't climb to the top where, I learned later on the computer, someone else has died almost every year. I didn't ask the question because I couldn't bring myself to speak it. I wonder how long it might take for memory to form images of itself in the dark dark darkness here, and what might be rearranged in me if I remembered. I wonder if all water touches somewhere, eventually, whispering prayers and answering questions.