origin 11 notes in origin index ellie epp

red and white, the lake house




cleaning the cupboard and kitchen. she intent ordering her room


it's flattened, quieter, scented, so much of that color, blown down


she says, did i used to be like this?


storing plates


outside, it's there



it was darker. light through west window onto the table.

supper cooking. a cabbage with a cut face. crushed tinfoil.

she sits beside me to say, how does that patch of wall look

to you? the wall's luminous. i take care, thinking it will

swarm with lights if i give it time


the house from outside the spruce. one room lit, onto

the door open, red. a person moves through the door. the

milky way continues down the sides of the poplars. we go

for water. she throws the pail. we can't speak



it was a thursday evening late in the fall of the year.

the weather was wild and rough outside, and it was cruelly

dark. the rain fell and the winds blew until the walls of

the cottage shook. there they all sat around the fire

busy with this thing and that. just then, all at once,

something gave three taps at the window pane


she's alone in the room at recess. what are you reading/

she shows the cover


the white bear's gentle expression looking around the

door to where the girl sits by the fire


she grasps her bundle with one hand, and the bear's neck-ridge

with the other. the bear walks quickly forward. they

leave the forest she knows, trails her father disappeared

by. she looks around. her legs are warm in the bear's

fur, her arms cold in the shawl. sunset between the

trees, darkening. and then they come to the steep hill


for one thing she wished to know: who it was who came in

the night and slept in her room



going to the school - into the corridor - on the steps -

wind and sun, reflection flies as the door opens - the

children rush out - i'm shy in flood - seeing the faces

looking, delight, in full focus of curiosity - whose car is

that - fred's children i can see are proud to know - it's

hers - a pelting, voices - how was the space - failing,

recovering, afraid, delighted, that is liking them,

liked - they run to the buses




round the lake listening to swans. on the east side tread on

mint. soft track. the length of the field and the house's

isle. short walk and a great distance, moon's through


gabble blabber they're excited


first unlocated, then suddenly above, in front, beats,

scrapes, whistles. heavy bodies, the crooked line

suddenly enlarged. and gone. planing, braking, water

and wing beats. cold flash


eat many muffins. go to test the camera. think of filming

and not knowing the shape, small things


swans gone. lake white


a new thing: ice i'm standing on with the camera. then --

when I look up HWHunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng

seems to run straight across the lake from here to there,

at the same time the shiver underfoot seems to arrive from

there to here. at the same time i jump ready to leave


can't see a crack. nothing has changed. sense of the

distance to the other shore. a membrane, in some way i

don't understand, whipped once, vibrated minutely. because

of a small weight at one edge


ice fog. frost feather tufts. one swan left behind,

sitting still on the ice as if floating, quiet movements

turning its head


worked to clear some papers


they're at the table in the garden, plucking chickens


cutting fat poplar in the ditch. breaking fallen trees out

of the branches of standing trees, dragging them out


she said she didn't feel anything the way she used to


the comedy of our two cars in the ditch at the corner



a warm wind. all night with the door open. like moon

day. roar from the poplar screen, the spruce violent


hatred after loving days. a hot day. smoke blew down


bedlam just starts to sound in the back room. I silence it


she said make a computer out of molecules. the air is


acceleration. can mind move fast enough. from air to

something slower, accelerate


into making. where is making made. in the bits


acceleration said j: in metamorphosis, by desire and

conflict. sang how in paradiso she corrects his geometry



chainsaw at the edge of a clean field. in the windrow know

the balance of every log stacked on log. bitter taste:



she sits on a cut round facing west. light from under

cloud ceiling. the shadows are turquoise laid on rimed

earth. feeling of an edge. brush wall and then west to

infinity, yellow open sea


brief daylight. how to use it. there's having to go

out for wood. picking a box of kindling twigs. chopping

enough for a day


confused bread


it's been thirty-five, forty, below


under disorder pulling up covers, the rosy face with real

eyes and such a smile, talking, rapture and lasciviousness,

as if holding something in itself, open as if the to the air

of the room. has it been the natural christmas today?

in bed till sunset then feasting on fried rice. let's not

do any cooking work today


walking under the stars. crunch. moon seeming to be visibly

filling. crossing the lake to it, kicked snow singing on

the crust