Glass Museum

(Side note on sources: This title is probably a title even more apt for the last entry's photograph than this week's entry!
: )

I like to take titles from the music I am listening to and adapt my writing for the entry to it. This is the title of a Tortoise track, a sort of electronica/wordless emo band from Chicago. The album is titled Millions Now Living Will Never Die. Just thought credits' sake was due...)

Saw Capote a couple of nights ago - the film based off the book about the book by Truman Capote entitled In Cold Blood (did you follow the meta-authorship on that one?). It was a perfect first-few-days-of-winter movie - a period film, silent fifties, dressed down without cell phones or computers or much by way of televisions and radios. Even the high class cocktail clientele was silent in comparison to the larger parties I now attend. Even Capote's rapacious behavior was silent somehow - well-directed, spaced, spacious. Glass-like, in fact, in it's delicateness, despite his torrid social errors and confused state of being.

I've been experimenting with my own delicate self lately. Wandering over the new ice, not yet grey, and late with new people into the night, feet the first to find some kind of ground under a foot of large-flaked snow. How late can I stay up and still be awake the next day? How far in can I dance with someone and keep my toes when I walk away? I certainly hope to evade any of the tricky moral ground Capote was infamous for not only visiting but inhabiting, and yet, those lines are delicate at best.

A museum of glass. Thousands of rustling stones below the glass floor. Silence, and small cracks. Very winter: active, warm on the inside, exterior cool and blond and collected. Capote and I, both.