Inside the Bell Tower

I took this photo in May of 2007, which of course seems like about two weeks ago. We’ve been in this small state for almost two and half years and I see how time gets compressed–I’ve erased the afternoons and the mornings and the evenings and all that remains is the back and forth motion of time, tightly sequenced and carefully structured so as to take care of our little passengers who are moving through it — at the moment –thoughtlessly.

I am the ponderous oaf, the deep resounding bell that drops in slow motion —-DONNNNNG then releases for a sweet moment, only to fall again, repeating the sound with whatever momentum is left, because I have to —-DONNG! The sound forms on dusty bell curves, dust that flies up manically for a moment and which then also forgets itself soon enough, and settles down again after the vibrations silence themselves past dusk.

Inside the bell tower, there is no drudgery and there is no satisfaction. The rain falls and we are damp– rather we are blindly scorched by the summer’s rays. Unhappy hasn’t found its way up the winding staircases or inside the ringers’ sleeves yet.

It’s only that we are just not sure where to land on the issue, inside the bell tower, as we pass another hour for the time to complain again.

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Elizabeth Howard

Elizabeth writes literary non-fiction, haiku, cultural rants, and Demand Poetry in order to forward the cause of beautiful writing. She teaches and speaks about the rhetorical impact of beautiful writing. A recent transplant to Connecticut, she calls London, Kansas City, and Iowa home. 

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