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January 17, 2004
come right in?

Can you imagine this here were a real place? What if it were a room in which we would actually be present? Would it be a strange thing? Would I still say these little cryptic little pieces and pull out a little drawing out of a vault now and then? Tell some story that would not seem to make any sense? Would I, at the end, offer a little piece of paper that would be just titled: "You said?"... on the wall behind me would there be a slightly odd image that would change every time you entered the room? Would there be little drawers in the wall, labeled by month and year? Would there be a menue with other places to go? Some with comments, some not? Would there be rooms in the back? Hidden rooms?
And how many of us would be in this room here? What would we all look like? Would you get to see my father, with a camera, trying to record the conversation? Would there be very unexpected visitors from around the world? Or would it be a pretty similar makeup of people? Exciting? Smiling? Rushed? Curious? Happy?
Would you see me slap on the fingers of those who sneak in through beck doors and try to post comments for strange drugs, disguising them in sentences about Willa Cather's Lucy Gayheart? Would we watch as somebody repeatedly ask for directions, or for names of people I spoke about before?
How long would you stay? Would you tell others about it? Would you come again?
Will you?...


...ich schon...und ich fände toll ,wenn kleine gurkensandwiches und wohltemperierter wein gereicht würden.

Posted by: the m. on January 17, 2004 01:22 PM

— for all Witold's delightful inspiration in matters of drawing and transport I would hereby like the put forward the ideal garment for every-day wear; particularly to all the enchanted friends who enjoy your lines so very much:


Posted by: the fireside on a rainy London evening on January 17, 2004 03:23 PM

You'd have a crowded house. I'd be the conventional one sitting in the back standing by the window pretending to look out.

Posted by: Laura on January 17, 2004 07:50 PM

I sneak in - not through a back door but through the front entrance. Not in a fashion that anyone would notice. Not a person anyone would know even if they did look up when I arrived. I stand quietly inside the doorway and observe. Watch. Listen. Look. Holding a small scrap of paper, with blue fountain pen marks on it of concentric semicircles that subtley lighten and darken where the pen width has ink thicks and thins.

I am drawn here.

I draw here.

Posted by: Michelle on January 17, 2004 09:20 PM

oooh... (thank you.)

Posted by: Witold Riedel on January 17, 2004 10:11 PM
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