By Rebecca Lindenberg
The mask that burns like a violin, the mask
that sings only dead languages, that loves
the destruction of being put on. The mask
that sighs like a woman even though
a woman wears it. The mask beaded with
freshwater pearls, with seeds. The plumed mask,
the mask with a sutured mouth, a moonface,
with a healed gash that means harvest. A glower
that hides wanting. A grotesque pucker. Here’s
a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask
without eyes, a mask that looks like a mask
but isn’t—please don’t try to unribbon it.
The mask that snows coins, the mask full of wasps.
Lace mask to net escaping thoughts. Pass me
the rouged mask, the one made of sheet music.
Or the jackal mask, the hide-bound mask
that renders lovers identical with night.
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A lot of my Friday was taken up with chores, getting people places and getting things done, but it was so cold when the wind blew that I didn't mind not having time for a proper walk in the park, and I spent part of the afternoon shifting the clothes in my closet from summer in the front to winter in the front. We had dinner with my parents, then came home for Blindspot (the time jump is working for me) and a special on In the Heights.
Toulouse was in the news today for a sad reason (a suspected terrorist attack that turned out to be a schizophrenic man who decided to mow down Chinese college students with his vehicle). Seeing the photos reminded me how much I loved the city when we visited last spring; we arrived in the afternoon as students were leaving the university and the city felt very young and friendly. Here are some photos of the gorgeous architecture.
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