Ms. V. von Willendorf der Gravettian

Naturhistorisches Museum

Burgring 7,

1010 Wien

(Vienna) Austria

When the pears begin to ripen in the Dordogne—it will be lovely, and you can come by train. I’ll rent a small house with a wide patio and we can eat fruit at night with the doors open to the gardens. There we’ll talk about your understanding of death, that the land of the dead is beautiful. In the past I may have understood this to mean that you believed that there was a land somewhere else, but now that you’ve told me there can never be anywhere but here, that the rocks and soil, the plants, animals, the people are all made up of the dust of the dead, that the past is also the future and all of it is here—I realize that what you mean is that the earth is beautiful and that the earth and the land of the dead mean the same thing, just with different contextual tonalities. And I agree with you, that somehow my first assumption that the land of the dead must be somewhere else is a legacy of vision as a predominate contextual force. I do wonder when that started, since clearly for you it wasn’t so. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Happiness V. Happiness.

Ms. V. von Willendorf der Gravettian

Naturhistorisches Museum

Burgring 7,

1010 Wien

(Vienna) Austria

When I walk? Mostly it is a rushing of sky. After that day moving across the flax field with you, still tasting pears, and brie in my teeth—there was a moment a few weeks after I returned home. My knees became soft levers emitting a contralto hum; hips lilac rockers, arms, golden clock hands on silicate wheels, spinning Mingus’ goodbye pork pie hat. I happened to be walking downhill toward the nearby river. I could hear it singing, like sometimes I can the sky. There was a badger friend just down the soft slope grumbling as she dug. Last year’s locust pods, sentient and attentive. The wet in the air friable. It felt like I imagine a windstorm does to a mountain, wondrous and ephemeral. I cannot stay there, but I am learning to visit. Is this walking for you?