The Dome


I have leafed through the book in countless ways. Quickly slowly hurriedly patiently leisurely nervously covetously eagerly and with total peace of mind. I didn't just leaf through. I also turned it over from side to side. And I embraced and cradled it and rested my head on it as if it were a pillow and threw it aside to hang for drying and leave me alone and let me be but I couldn't help myself and returned to it. And leafed through once again. I think I discovered my favorite leafing key. Most of all I like leafing through the book after the color red. I call it red leafing. I love red. Any red. And so I begin. The first red is a dog's tongue. It's not a real red. It's pink red. Pinkish. Then comes bird red. I think this bird is called red robin. Perhaps red robiness. But I'm not sure. In any event it is vivid red. Deep red. Red of life. Red red. Then comes roof red. Which is a slightly dead red. Under the roof red there is plenty of life. But the roof red is a totally dead red. It is immediately followed by scary red. This is the red of masked terrorists. It contains a great deal of motion but also death. Or at least a sign of imminent death. And then dog's-tongue red. Again. And bird red. This time red-beaked. And then romantic red. Girl's-clothing red. The pocket she has on her bottom is really red. Even blazing red. She kisses a guy so it is a really lively red. And she has a little rouge on her cheeks. Blush red. And once again roof red. The slightly pale one. And then my favorite red – blood red. Red oozing from a wound. A wounded doe. A wounded bambi. She lies quietly. Leisurely. Exuding blood red. Exuding yet looking entirely tranquil. As if she doesn't care she is exuding. Blood red is the most beautiful. Because it holds both life and death. There is a lot of blood red in the book. And also paratrooper's-beret red and anemone red and clitoris red and nipple red and fire red and lip red and sex red. I leaf through after the red thread like a cat chasing a ball of yarn. I capture the red and it slips away and continues to roll. And unravel. Farther and farther away from me. To the last red. A dog's tongue. Panting. He looks thirsty. Very. Or hungry. Very too. He is probably waiting for something. Or someone. To come. For something to happen. The last red is probably anticipation red.

Text by Tamar Gelbetz, 2006