Shroud of Frenchtown I made the shroud of Frenchtown after I finished sanding the stairwell in my house, pressed the print of my face into a sweaty t-shirt, and left a spackle-dust ghost in the damp navy blue cloth then hung it to dry in my basement. That night I dreamt a century swung by like a wrecking ball and beat the house to rubble but in the ruins, an archeologist found my shroud, and from the sweat and caked impression of my features approximated my race, age, height, weight, political affiliation, religion, and shoe size. But what the archeologist didn’t know was that I patched, puttied, and sanded the stairwell myself. He had no clue that blasting iTunes, I screamed Arcade Fire, and our anthem blazed up the staircase, swept down the hall and leapt from the attic to the quiet Victorian next door. I drew a fine line with a brush between primed wall and white ceiling then danced as I rolled on a thick coat of brilliant yellow. Finished, the stairwell beamed like a tunnel through the sun, and I climbed the steps and descended them proudly wrapped in what I’d done.
Posted on: Wed, 31 Jul 2013 02:13:02 +0000
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