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mary g.'s avatar

“When you start working, everybody is in your studio—the past, your friends, enemies, the art world, and above all, your own ideas—all are there. But as you continue painting, they start leaving, one by one, and you are left completely alone. Then, if you’re lucky, even you leave.” —John Cage

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MVM's avatar

My husband recently downloaded a tape recording we found once, in the basement of my father's house. It was labelled "Kids 1978." Beyond that, I had no idea what was on it.

On the tape was first the voice of my father (recently gone), in a semi-serious voice, as if he were in an office: "Testing-one-two-three." Then an awkward pause, lots of shuffling sounds, followed by the voice of my grandmother (long gone), in her soft West Texas accent, clearly speaking directly against the microphone: "This is a tape recorder, girls. You talk nice," she adds, and I heard her chuckling as she and my father seem to walk off.

Then my sister (still here, fortunately), announcing her name, address, age, and that she likes cats.

A pause.

Me, screaming: half of my name, claiming to 350 years old, and announcing, "I am... a POET!"

A longer silence.

And finally the evidence: "I am a horse;" I begin. A pause. "Horse-Dorse!" I proclaim.

"Ohhhh," my sister whispers.

"I know," I whisper back. "THAT's what poetry is!"

I resume yelling into that tape recorder with more "genius."

May we all horse-dorse as often as we can.

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