Jon and I went to our friend Ian’s apartment for dinner last night. Usually Ian, who is also our shearer, a poet and musician, has dinner at the farm.
But he wanted to have us over to his place and I was curious to go. Some people are different in their own homes then in other places. And their home also speaks to who they are.
Ian is the only 24 year old person that I know, and I’m always interested to see the world through his eyes. Since he’s a poet who shares his poems with us, that part comes easy. But we also always have good conversations. Ian is smart, thoughtful and able to discuss his ideas and opinions while also being a good listener.
Some of the things in his home brought me back in time. Like the two shelves of typewriters both manual and electric, the 1970s colonial style furniture and the shelves of worn paperbacks browning at the edges.
There is much about Ian that seems to defy time, and when I used the bathroom before going home I saw his jacket (he gets most of his clothes from thrift shops) hanging on a hook sandwiched by hangers.
“Do you mind if I take a picture of your jacket hanging in the bathroom?” I asked him.
I showed Ian the photo on my iPhone. “I love the drape of the jacket and the hangers,” I told him. “It’s like a poem without words.”
To me it’s a portrait of the Ian I met last night, the Ian at home. Who, I have to say, is the same the Ian I already knew.
