#ellen kaufman

[mollymcghee]

I. Bank Story The river needed more room and so it took a room for itself along the water’s edge, lolled porch-side in the downpour, came up against the curved road with its own proposal drowning out theirs, until the river was a road and the road a river spreading through windows like a liquid view, trees wavering on the surface amid clouds and, after all, the dilatory sun drying the paper bedrooms and the rusted kitchen until, finally, the crooked house returned and the river, again homeless, was back in its old place between the banks, washing itself on rocks.

Ellen Kaufman: Bank Story

[fluttering-slips]

Cash Flow

Those twenty dollars missing from your wallet  remind you of the moment when you slipped  them in your wallet, thinking of something  else. These are the absent moments.  You touch yourself for hints of reassurance:  no wallet! Blood rushes from your face.  You find it though—it's in a different pocket.  A narrow brush. These are the precious moments.  A blind panhandler taps you on the shoulder.  Absently, you pull your wallet from your  pocket, comb yourself for change. He thanks  you very much. He taps you on the shoulder,  hands you back your twenty dollars. Blood  rushes to your face. You thank him very much.  These were the missing moments. All is well  until he taps you on the shoulder, hands you back  your wallet. Blood rushes to your face. A close  escape. You thank him very much. Arriving home,  you're missing twenty dollars. You comb your wallet.  You can't remember. Blood rushes from your face and fills your pockets. These are the narrow moments.

ELLEN KAUFMAN

[bibliomancyoracle]

You touch yourself for hints of reassurance:  no wallet! Blood rushes from your face.  You find it though—it's in a different pocket. 

*

from "Cash Flow" by Ellen Kaufman

[brashyoungandblurryinparis-blog]

Photography by our friend Ellen whose recent Paris trip looks like a little bit of magic.