I enjoyed Hamish Fulton’s word art, brining his audience to a more intimate notion of his walk, than a series of touristic photos would have done. I also related to Hailey’s description of the camp as a transient space. For myself, camps fall in-between the solid spaces of my life in terms of missions, jobs, and living situations. However, all my camp experiences hold some of my most concrete memories and valuable experiences. For this post I’m connecting the two articles with a sound/word poem from last Tuesday morning at the MRS.

Morning Voice (MRS)

The extended groan of the door,
bare feet whisking across carpeting

Melissa’s staccato typing
punctuated by a dry cough
that collapses the article I’m reading,
the couch beneath me,
leveling the floor and spaces
separating us

I’m one of two conscious people
in a sleeping house

Gusts of wind push at the house,
defining its sheltered interior;
A constant electric buzz
betrays the hidden workings
behind walls

My first-story perch
opens up to the larger common room;
triangular windows capturing blue sky
and the poised bell-like lights,
hanging patiently, waiting
to be switch back into life

The drip of fluid—
Coffee and showers,
more feet, zippers, Snuffling,
over the flick of turned pages,
and the jostling and tinkling,
of kitchen wares

A smell and popping sizzle
declarative of fried eggs
on cheap vegetable oil

The ribbon whispers of the conscientious,
solo then weaving together, and around each other
attempting to both preserve and breach the silence