Yearly Archives: 2004

Changing Hands

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~ for Mom and Dad

Mark half-turned toward the house, reached back to grasp the door handle, and pulled it shut.  Tracy waited at the bottom of the porch steps.  He joined her, and the two set off down the sidewalk.  She caught his hand.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” she said as they began to walk.  He glanced at her face – her slight, relaxed smile, the brown, silver threaded curls bobbing about her forehead.  He followed her gaze to the quiet street and the trees in their late-summer green.  He looked up at the blue, cloud-wisped sky and the lowering sun.  He nodded. Continue reading →

Seeing More

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We entered.

“Come see the artwork,” they said,

So I looked, and I saw it –

there, up ahead,

And above, and below, and indeed,

all around,

In wall, floor and ceiling,

easily found.

They pointed,

“Look: collages, etchings, drawings, and paintings.”

But I really preferred the

subtle swirlings

Of the slate floor’s grain lines as they

whirled and twirled

And crashed against the edges of their

stone-block world.

They claimed,

“These collages profoundly express social awareness and deep feeling.”

But in truth, I thought more of the

ceiling

Where the gaps and the cracks in the rough

two-by-fours

Told me vague tales of time sealed behind

the past’s doors.

They stated,

“This artist portrayed life in candid and bold etchings and sketches.”

But my interest was all in another floor’s

stretches

Of marbled molasses set in wood

honey-brown,

Sealed smooth so I saw my own face when

I looked down.

They spoke,

“These paintings…” but I still didn’t hear.

I was too busy looking up, down, far

and near,

Completely wrapped up in all that

I saw.

This was pure beauty

raw.

What more did I need?

But did I

see all there was to see?

Could I

have looked beyond (and how far?) what I saw easily?

Could I

have tried to comprehend something unnatural to me?

Could I

have reached out to grasp a different kind of beauty?

Nothing

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Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.

– Gene Fowler

       Nothing. Her desk, a disarray of blue, white, and purple papers, of black, pink, and yellow pens, sat before her. Her keyboard – useless, useless thing – sat in her lap. And she sat, stuck, her mind hopelessly fixated on the vast, all encompassing nothing of her inspiration. The empty, glaring white page on the screen in front of her seemed a fitting image of nothing, she thought. Not that such an image was helpful. 

       She needed to write. She glanced at the blue, hard-backed notepad that sat open on her desk. Read Ch. 7 Lit due tomorrow, crossed off. Read Ch. 5 Ancient History due Fri, crossed off. Do probs. 3, 5, 7-18 Chem. due Thurs., crossed off. Write story due tomorrow. Nothing.  Continue reading →