Barbara, you've inspired me to write in the morning instead of listening to radio. So we go:
It's the upstairs of an old house. There's an open door, and through it, you can see another door. Across the room, yet another door. And in that third room is an old chair, silouetted aganst the window. You can see only the top rail of this chair. The rest is mainly lost in the darkness beneath the window. The floor of this room is bright, with straight shadows laid horizontally across it. Just inside the door of the middle room, the floor is dark, though it gradually brightens within a few feet. To the left of the door are a number of bulky quilts or comforters, folded and stacked on a low wood cabinet. Now between the middle and the nearest room, the one we are looking out from, is a dark, walk-through closet sort of space. A dark curtain hangs down in folds there on the right side. The wide, plank floor is bare. The first room is bright, with a small white writing desk and a chair to the right of the door. A mirror hangs over the desk, reflecting a window on the back wall. The wall next to the desk angles inward and meets the door at the corner. At the base of the door, next to the desk is a decorative waste basket. All the doors up here are painted white. All the doorknobs are dark and glossy.
I like your long-winded scene. The violence reads indirect and sort of abstract against the scenery-painting, which makes it, for me, all the more violent. Cool.
Bob
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Only Peripherially About Fish
Thanks for your kind comments, Bob. It's the pictures; wonderful pictures make good words, I guess. Last night I got a bit wordy (I hope you don't mind), so here goes:
A few more steps across the blackened rock, careful not to get tangled in the grasping branches of the sea grape colonizing the edge, and Jack could look down into the sea. Water the color of liquid turquoise lapped at the base of the rock where it plunged underwater, hissing and foaming in the spaces. The cliff face, all of the rock on this tiny island, was ancient reef pushed into the air by forces deep within the planet. Jack used his hand to shade his eyes as he scanned the shallows for his quarry. The water was so clear and the sand so white beneath it that even the smallest movement was visible. He saw schools of fish going about their business. He watched groups of Bar Jacks hunting, darting to scatter smaller fish when they struck. He saw the silver blade of a solitary barracuda patrolling the reef edge, waiting for an opportunity to pounce on the unwary. All seemed normal. He turned to the cab driver standing nervously behind the open door of his van. "Are you sure this is where you heard Manning ask to go?" As the driver nodded, licking his lips to moisten them, his mouth suddenly dry from the thread of menace in Jack's voice, neither man noticed a hand reach up over the lip of the drop-off and slowly close around Jack's ankle. Pulled off-balance and flailing in the heartless air, Jack fell silently onto the tumbled boulders at the base of the cliff, then his unconscious form rolled into the cool water. Manning clung to the ironshore rocks and sea grape roots for a moment to watch Jack's body being sliced and shredded by the waves until he noticed the first predators vector in from the navy blue of deeper water. He pulled himself up onto the top of the cliff, rolled over the sea grape and stood up, dusting his hands on his shorts. "Not a bad acting job, Evert," he said, clapping the driver on the back. Evert gave him a mute look, went around the back of the van, and lost his breakfast in the thorny scrub, drawing an interested audience of lizards. Manning climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key. "Mount up; I'll drive. I think we could both use a Polar, maybe a whole six-pack." Evert emerged from the bush dragging a shaky hand over his mouth, got into the van and slammed the door. Manning jammed through the gears and drove south in a flurry of gravel, leaving only a small dust cloud to mark Jack's passing.
Not my usual kind of writing, but I like it. See you Thursday. Don't forget it's exercises night!
--Barbara
A few more steps across the blackened rock, careful not to get tangled in the grasping branches of the sea grape colonizing the edge, and Jack could look down into the sea. Water the color of liquid turquoise lapped at the base of the rock where it plunged underwater, hissing and foaming in the spaces. The cliff face, all of the rock on this tiny island, was ancient reef pushed into the air by forces deep within the planet. Jack used his hand to shade his eyes as he scanned the shallows for his quarry. The water was so clear and the sand so white beneath it that even the smallest movement was visible. He saw schools of fish going about their business. He watched groups of Bar Jacks hunting, darting to scatter smaller fish when they struck. He saw the silver blade of a solitary barracuda patrolling the reef edge, waiting for an opportunity to pounce on the unwary. All seemed normal. He turned to the cab driver standing nervously behind the open door of his van. "Are you sure this is where you heard Manning ask to go?" As the driver nodded, licking his lips to moisten them, his mouth suddenly dry from the thread of menace in Jack's voice, neither man noticed a hand reach up over the lip of the drop-off and slowly close around Jack's ankle. Pulled off-balance and flailing in the heartless air, Jack fell silently onto the tumbled boulders at the base of the cliff, then his unconscious form rolled into the cool water. Manning clung to the ironshore rocks and sea grape roots for a moment to watch Jack's body being sliced and shredded by the waves until he noticed the first predators vector in from the navy blue of deeper water. He pulled himself up onto the top of the cliff, rolled over the sea grape and stood up, dusting his hands on his shorts. "Not a bad acting job, Evert," he said, clapping the driver on the back. Evert gave him a mute look, went around the back of the van, and lost his breakfast in the thorny scrub, drawing an interested audience of lizards. Manning climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key. "Mount up; I'll drive. I think we could both use a Polar, maybe a whole six-pack." Evert emerged from the bush dragging a shaky hand over his mouth, got into the van and slammed the door. Manning jammed through the gears and drove south in a flurry of gravel, leaving only a small dust cloud to mark Jack's passing.
Not my usual kind of writing, but I like it. See you Thursday. Don't forget it's exercises night!
--Barbara
Monday, October 8, 2007
Like Poetry
Barbara, both your Saturday and Sunday posts are wonderful. You've got a fine essay going on there. Today's post is so cool and even and introspective. I hear your voice when I read it. "You can see it in her face." What angel dropped that line on you? It reads like poetry. You and Jenny. Something amazing is happening.
Bob
Bob
Not a Fish Pic
Only the thought that I'd have to admit to you that I hadn't written got me to the page last night.
You can see it in her face. The little girl dressed all in red with lovely long black braids and a bright white smile is the darling of her family. You don't wear a smile like that when you're eight years old unless you know you are special. It says below the photo that her name is Clarinda, a pretty name for a self-confident girl. I can see little Clarinda on her way to school decked out in her carefully ironed white blouse and navy and white plaid pleated uniform skirt. No room for the distraction of fashion when a child's education is at stake. Our little miss probably wears shiny buckle shoes instead of the more casual tennies, and I'd lay odds that her sock tops are even and never scootch down to puddle around her ankles like mine used to do. Reality comes as a bit of a shock to girls who have had such a carefree childhood as I imagine for our Miss Clarinda. It's not easy coming to the realization that not everyone cares to smooth the way for you forever. Maybe it's better to have a little heartache when you're young, to have to fight a bit to get what you desire, then reality won't be quite as much of a shock.
I need to buy another calendar with non-underwater pictures. Some days the sight of one drives me mad with longing. Besides, variety is good.
--Barbara
You can see it in her face. The little girl dressed all in red with lovely long black braids and a bright white smile is the darling of her family. You don't wear a smile like that when you're eight years old unless you know you are special. It says below the photo that her name is Clarinda, a pretty name for a self-confident girl. I can see little Clarinda on her way to school decked out in her carefully ironed white blouse and navy and white plaid pleated uniform skirt. No room for the distraction of fashion when a child's education is at stake. Our little miss probably wears shiny buckle shoes instead of the more casual tennies, and I'd lay odds that her sock tops are even and never scootch down to puddle around her ankles like mine used to do. Reality comes as a bit of a shock to girls who have had such a carefree childhood as I imagine for our Miss Clarinda. It's not easy coming to the realization that not everyone cares to smooth the way for you forever. Maybe it's better to have a little heartache when you're young, to have to fight a bit to get what you desire, then reality won't be quite as much of a shock.
I need to buy another calendar with non-underwater pictures. Some days the sight of one drives me mad with longing. Besides, variety is good.
--Barbara
Sunday, October 7, 2007
It was another Fish picture
Since there's only one picture for every seven days in a week-at-a-glance calendar (well, duh) I've just been flipping my 2007 Bonaire planner open at night and writing about whatever picture I see. Last night's was a cool one of a fish hovering over a big sponge. Here's what appeared in my notebook:
The big Tiger Grouper hangs motionless over the Orange Barrel Sponge like a trophy on some avid fisherman's mantle. But it's my trophy. I have fine-tuned my diving so that I no longer thrash about scaring fish away. I glide through the water like an arrow slipping between the molecules, barely pushing a pressure wave before me. I learned the surge and sway of the liquid world and I stopped fighting it. Now I am aware of its push and pull, I feel the currents that flow through it like a breeze on a sultry summer day and I glide through the aqua density like a native. So still am I, so at home, that the most nervous of the fish, the Spotted Drums, barely pause when I appear. And that big Tiger Grouper? His eye swivels in appraisal, then he flexes his gills to invite the tiny cleaner fish to resume their work as I watch. I am not a threat. I am at home here.
The big Tiger Grouper hangs motionless over the Orange Barrel Sponge like a trophy on some avid fisherman's mantle. But it's my trophy. I have fine-tuned my diving so that I no longer thrash about scaring fish away. I glide through the water like an arrow slipping between the molecules, barely pushing a pressure wave before me. I learned the surge and sway of the liquid world and I stopped fighting it. Now I am aware of its push and pull, I feel the currents that flow through it like a breeze on a sultry summer day and I glide through the aqua density like a native. So still am I, so at home, that the most nervous of the fish, the Spotted Drums, barely pause when I appear. And that big Tiger Grouper? His eye swivels in appraisal, then he flexes his gills to invite the tiny cleaner fish to resume their work as I watch. I am not a threat. I am at home here.
And now for the farm report...
Here we are in Wisconsin at the end of the first week of October, it's 83 degrees and humid, and the garden's still going strong-- the okra's still blooming & making yummy pods, the cherry tomatoes are blooming 
again, and we harvested our first Brussels sprouts. Yum!
Dishcloth, dishcloth, dishcloth... fish
I got a new skein of variegated yarn a couple weeks ago (on clearance) and realized last night I hadn't knit a fish with it yet. Horrors! I was amazed at how quickly it went. Fish are (is?) what I learned to knit on so I think of them as something I have to work at, but evidently knitting 2 purses, 2 pairs of fingerless gloves, and half a scarf has ramped up my knitting skills. But not enough to knit a sweater. I have to keep telling myself that because I found a sweater pattern I like that uses big needles and big yarn, and I'm a sucker for those. But I am not going to set myself up for frustration by starting to knit a sweater. I'm not.
I discovered yesterday (when I put down my garter stitch scarf [seen here draped on the pineapple sage plant--isn't it pretty?] because my left arm was sore)
why I'm not frogging the capelet.
Aside from being inordinately proud that I'm managing to knit a different color edging without going totally mad and making a single-cross cable, knitting on it doesn't make my left arm sore. I don't know if it's the size 11 needles, the fact that they're plastic, or that they're circular, but when I knit on the capelet my arm is fine, when I knit on the scarf it aches. Go figure. (I never pretended to be normal.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)