...are on my floor, and table.. in pieces, forming slowly to be future creative houses.
Unborn, eyes closed, not yet formed...
Do I hear a heartbeat? What will I be? Who will take me home?
Soon to be born, known.
Pieces of leather, board, paper, cloth and tape mix and mingle, fighting for attention. Stanley knife and bone folder lay side by side. Little baby journals on the shelf keep watch, whispering among themselves. Around the corner a dish of strong black tea swishes itself about hand torn paper, soaking into the depth of fibers, erasing the newness, leaving ye olde in its wake.
Tomorrow I shall drain the paper, fretting about lost tank water as I rinse, and rinse again.
Then, laying it all out on a plastic sheet, I will inevitably leave drips of tea on my floor, which I shall have to mop up later. I will imagine who may write on it, draw on it; think on it... where it might go.
At this stage I have only an inkling of what it may evolve into.
When it's dry, it begins to whisper. I know this because I feel a terrible sense of guilt when I put it in the press, like it's screaming for air. But I have to reassure, it's for your own good, your preserved beauty ... to be ironed and ready for your new home. The screaming stops. My guilt abates.
The birds will sing; maybe a Tui, blackbird, thrush or sparrow.
I wait until morning.