The room with the live crocodile chairs where clouds fly upward past the window in a pink-lit sky.
The floor is red. The walls the same red but such a different color. The floor glows darkness. The walls glow mystery. They change. Blink, and you'll swear that that swirl used to be elsewhere in the pattern.Blink, and you'll wonder if you could see seven crocodile teeth the moment before. The crocodiles - are smiling.
This is the room of the grandmother woolfe wallpaper. You may wonder about grandmother woolfe. That may be the first dangerous thought you've had all day. She's there, behind you, in front of you. On your skin. Slithering in and out of your consciousness and body. You might think she's a scorpio. that's true, but it's not the whole picture. A postcard can't paint a mountain. *She's here.*
This is her room. She hung the paper herself, tarred with lover's blood and spring tree sap. Is it alive? No less so than you.
This is the room where the concept of *alive* doesn't make sense. What's not alive? Why would one draw such a line on the beach when the tide's coming in? Look again at those clouds. They're laughing.
This is the room of the grandmother woolfe wallpaper. I'm not sure how we got in here. Is there a door? Perhaps in the apartment of Jove and Stella. That place and one of my childhood homes always mixed in my mind.
Perhaps we never came here. Perhaps we've never left. Maybe we're patterns, shifting in the red glow of the wall, mixing in a way that's beautiful, even tasty at times. Maybe we're nothing more than ink splattered by the badgers playing hockey with inkwells on the table. drops flying, hitting, running slowly, consciously down the wall. Dancing, dripping ink. Is there a better definition of life?
This is the room of the grandmother woolfe wallpaper. How can I welcome you to a place I've never been and can't remember leaving?
It's groundhog day. There's ink on my fingers. Let's play.