(no subject)
Firstly I want to send a hug and sympathies to DBear. I would have said so on your latest post, but despite a 'leave comment' tab being available, it would not actually give me a reply window to type in.
'Tis the bloody, bloody month of March, and I'm thinking I'd best immerse myself in writing for a healthy distraction. Bridgielove's birthday is the one bright and glorious thing about this month. I am immensely and eternally grateful for her coming into the world.
On a mixed note, but in the writing vein, I thought I might post some odds and ends that will never make it as anything complete. I end up with these fragments around that get dismissed for one reason or another. These bits were written on the way to a memorial service this past January, a situation which I hope explains the tone.
The patchy snow s not white, but blue and purple broken into a net by red-gold furze it cannot bury. Further out on hillsides beasts make shaggy shapes grazing in clumps on winter grass. Meandering lines of fences and paths make symbols of the unseen lives that toil the landscape.
Another fleeting view plunges me into the still serenity of woods. Skeleton trees rise pale gold from the lavender snow. This is a soundless forest from my spot at its edge. No animals dare to break the scene, leaving it eerily still. In a few moments it is gone.
Blue sky meets ruddy grass, each colour brighter for sharing the scene with its compliment. The touch of daily shadows is marked by stretches of unmelting snow. It marks the frozen edges of ponds, riming them in paler borders with unreachable waters reflecting the low sun inside.
Inside the rocking, rumbling room of the car is a shared space. every place your glance might land feels an invasion of privacy. To look at a fellow traveler finds one scrutinizing every gesture, each minute detail of appearance. To look instead o what they may be reading or doing to pass the time feels even more blatantly rude. The only escape from this crowded cage (and crowded it is, even if passengers are few) is through the window. Out there is an endless open space that turns the self into a mere pinpoint of observation.
Infinity rolls past, an entire world in each scene that shutters out of sight. These are worlds in which we can never live, or even breathe the air. Every glimpse is made more precious for being only that. To step out into any of these scenes would tarnish them forever. What we view through the window is not our own world, but a magic realm held only between cold panes of glass. t will never be ours to keep.
Behind me lies a world made mundane in memory, no matter how loved in the living of it. Before me waits another place of chaos and concerns, obligations and interactions.
Let me never arrive. Let me live forever in the measureless space framed by a windowpane.
I suppose I'd best turn my attention now to writing new material, whatever Ii can through the sneezing. Bloody March.
'Tis the bloody, bloody month of March, and I'm thinking I'd best immerse myself in writing for a healthy distraction. Bridgielove's birthday is the one bright and glorious thing about this month. I am immensely and eternally grateful for her coming into the world.
On a mixed note, but in the writing vein, I thought I might post some odds and ends that will never make it as anything complete. I end up with these fragments around that get dismissed for one reason or another. These bits were written on the way to a memorial service this past January, a situation which I hope explains the tone.
The patchy snow s not white, but blue and purple broken into a net by red-gold furze it cannot bury. Further out on hillsides beasts make shaggy shapes grazing in clumps on winter grass. Meandering lines of fences and paths make symbols of the unseen lives that toil the landscape.
Another fleeting view plunges me into the still serenity of woods. Skeleton trees rise pale gold from the lavender snow. This is a soundless forest from my spot at its edge. No animals dare to break the scene, leaving it eerily still. In a few moments it is gone.
Blue sky meets ruddy grass, each colour brighter for sharing the scene with its compliment. The touch of daily shadows is marked by stretches of unmelting snow. It marks the frozen edges of ponds, riming them in paler borders with unreachable waters reflecting the low sun inside.
Inside the rocking, rumbling room of the car is a shared space. every place your glance might land feels an invasion of privacy. To look at a fellow traveler finds one scrutinizing every gesture, each minute detail of appearance. To look instead o what they may be reading or doing to pass the time feels even more blatantly rude. The only escape from this crowded cage (and crowded it is, even if passengers are few) is through the window. Out there is an endless open space that turns the self into a mere pinpoint of observation.
Infinity rolls past, an entire world in each scene that shutters out of sight. These are worlds in which we can never live, or even breathe the air. Every glimpse is made more precious for being only that. To step out into any of these scenes would tarnish them forever. What we view through the window is not our own world, but a magic realm held only between cold panes of glass. t will never be ours to keep.
Behind me lies a world made mundane in memory, no matter how loved in the living of it. Before me waits another place of chaos and concerns, obligations and interactions.
Let me never arrive. Let me live forever in the measureless space framed by a windowpane.
I suppose I'd best turn my attention now to writing new material, whatever Ii can through the sneezing. Bloody March.