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Margaret Morton, Fragile Dwellings
Jimmy's Fishpond Jimmy bends down to pick through the rubble of an abandoned building on the Lower East Side. Patiently, he selects fragments of brick to border an oval pond he has carved from the hard dirt of the sun-baked lot. The pond is six inches deep, lined with black plastic bags, and filled with water from a nearby fire hydrant. It seems boundless, cool, and magical despite the intense heat. A streak of orange suddenly breaks the surface and disappears. There are only four goldfish right now. Teenage boys come into the lot and steal them. Sometimes they just leave them on the bank to die. But I always replace them - with what little money I get collecting cans. In the back of the lot, Jimmy has pitched a tent, fenced a garden, and planted beans and corn. Leaning back in his chair, he recalls his childhood in the south: sunlight filtered through lace curtains, a piano in the parlor, a house overlooking a pond. A week later, Jimmy, his tent, his garden, and his goldfish pond have all vanished. The tracks of a bulldozer crisscross the lot.
Fast ein bisschen zu sehr. Aber man glaubt ja gern, dass die Welt so ist, dammit.
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