William
Barak is seventy-eight years old. He wears the hat, wool coat, clean trousers,
and boots of the arrivistes. Fully clothed he can meet the companies halfway.
Upriver, July is cold. Life is the never-ending business of conversation: official
discussions, story time, kitchen updates, pillow talk. The frame within the
frame, it’s an imported practice. There has to be a wall, to hang frames, to
frame land. Watercolour and gouache, ochre and charcoal, but memory dances and
sings behind tiny spectacles. Life is the never-ending business of ritual:
creation celebration, holy re-enactment, communal reconciliation. In his teens
they came upriver.
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