Munch’s Apples

marks on wall in Pain

I’m almost ready to press my words into the plaster. It feels like I am holding my breath. How will it be? All this preparation and it will be ten minutes in the making.

He used to throw us his apples over the fence, she said. Munch in his garden at Skoyen throwing apples to two young girls. She is ninety-four now. Was he nice? I asked. Oh, yes, she said, he was very kind. We were both so moved by his paintings, even more so when they were juxtaposed with van Gogh’s. And the letters. My heart caught in my chest. It stopped for a moment. There. There they were, van Gogh’s letters. I must have seen them before in Amsterdam but here they seemed more intimate, so close. His hand was small, close, intense. And Munch’s too – so expressive, so felt. Both romantics.

To write. Too right. I love this. I need this. To write. Soon. When the two shows are up and done. Then there will be space.

I am in love with a place. I am in love with being there with him. I am in love with him. I am in love.

Nasty rabbits. Nasty rabbits and a fox that walked back to the mainland across the ice. It was too much for him. He was lonely and the rabbits, she told us, were nasty.

He calls it Doris. The dolphin. Of course, there are more than one. Any sign of Doris? he asks. No, not today. Not today.

Let it be what it will be. I am satisfied.

I place the stocks in a vase. Tonight they will intoxicate with their scent.