Georgie+Kirkham


 * Mirror to the World Exhibition**

The Mirror of the World exhibition was indeed all that it was called, in particular a reflection on the past of literature. This is the story of a robber.

Once upon a time a girl walked into the State Library and she saw many wonders. When she entered the room known as the Reading Dome, it seemed to steal her senses entirely. Why, there were books lining the heights of the walls, with balconies holding their shelves like precious china! The ingrained silence of the room and its occupants made her feel as though she were suspended above the ground by a string, in her wish not to disturb it. The desks were outstretched like the points of a star, although they were noticeably rectangular, so an unusual specimen indeed. The verbal chairs were surviving veterans of a year that had long past, accompanying the rest of the state on the ride into the current era. She skirted the book shelves round the walls, yet did not find any books to poke her curiosity. “Get out of the chandelier, you crazy giraffe!” someone then yelled. Promptly a scholar in bright red stockings zipped out of the room at a high speed, swiftly followed by a caretaker of the library. And that was all she saw of them as they disappeared around the corner, save a shiny piece of cut crystal in the doorway. (No, actually that didn’t happen; this is merely an entertaining/decorative/ornamented work of non-fiction) “Damn,” you say? But the tour of the really ancient books was the other wonder that thieved her mind. She came upon a row of medieval volumes and their tiny black text and vivid paintings caught her and kept her for quite some time. And when she arrived home that same day, the State Library was still standing in her mind.


 * The Statue**

What could a French heroine be doing in a country that she didn’t even know existed? But there I was, dwarfed by her bronze steed. They seemed to ride straight over me into the battle I couldn’t sight; perhaps I would have to be careful not to be trodden under the horse’s hooves. I circled her, saw her sitting straight and tall like she would rise above the saddle. The armour safeguarded both her body and hid the childhood that she left far behind in a rural village. The banner raised high in her confident fist, an emblem of what she set out to do, her principles laid out on its plain surface. I thought about how much I would have liked to know her. There she was, the object of my admiration for years, her name engraved in French below. Jeanne d’Arc.

Sand and shells the floor, The sea; a living carpet. This is the real room.
 * Haiku on the Water**