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| sky/story |
| 09.04.05 (8:04 pm) [edit] |
|
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 09.04.05 (1:03 pm)
And what a story it is.
I couldn't understand at first why your picture appeared to be bleeding off the page, but it looks like you've simply drawn write over the crease. I like the crease. And this delightfully messy landscape is reminding me of my living room at present... right down to the enormous beehive under the bush. It has to be a beehive. My mind can't fathom anything else. :)
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 09.04.05 (2:30 pm)
Yes.. the new notebook just begs me to go over the crease.. to fill up both pages at once.
I'm trying to convince myself it'll be ok. As you can see, I'm tentative with it.. but getting braver.
Again, thank you, L.
ams
posted by: kurtmaddox (reply)
post date: 09.06.05 (12:24 pm)
...and we are all the hero of that story within us :-)
posted by: BerlinBear (reply)
post date: 09.08.05 (11:49 am)
STOP PRESS: It's official AMS is channelling EHS! I'm suitably impressed. Now if only I could channel AAM for my blog, I'm sure I'd have a lot more readers! Nice one tJ.
posted by: CrazyBeautiful3 (reply)
post date: 09.08.05 (12:38 pm)
that's really cool.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 09.10.05 (1:44 pm)
Reply to: BerlinBear
Thank you, Mr Bear.
Let me know how it goes with the AAM channelling.
I appreciate the company, sir.
ams
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 09.10.05 (1:47 pm)
Reply to: CrazyBeautiful3
Well.. thank you for stopping by and chatting.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 09.10.05 (1:48 pm)
Reply to: kurtmaddox
We are quite the twee breed, no?
posted by: BerlinBear (reply)
post date: 09.11.05 (9:41 am)
Reply to: TheJongleur
Will do. No joy yet. A rather busier weekend than expected I'm afraid. We'll see how it goes.
posted by: lindy (reply)
post date: 09.15.05 (10:25 am)
Pssst.
I've been chasing butterflies in a distant field, though I still remember the way back home.
I'm doing my take cares. Hope you are too.
posted by: juniperflux (reply)
post date: 10.11.05 (4:43 pm)
He took the small, black notebook out of his pocket, and held it flat in the palm of his hand. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel its soft cover mold itself around the tips of his fingers, as though the shape and curve of his hand alone contained the secret password needed to open it. He lifted his tattered hat and let the breeze run its fingers through his unruly curls before placing it back on his head. Nearby, he could hear the reeds knock together nervously, like boys and girls at a school dance.
Blinking in the daylight, he noted that the wind had turned open the cover. A crooked smile pushed its way to the edges of his mouth, and he could almost hear her voice, “it’s fate, love” she’d have said with a giggle. His eyes wandered to the empty space next to him, half expecting to see her sprawled there ~ her head resting on his leg, her hair splayed across the length of his thigh and spilling onto the earth beneath them. It was in these moments especially that he found himself secretly wondering about the people who might stumble upon his notebook, tucked away in some hidden attic box, in the days and weeks following his own death. These private imaginings were never melancholy or morose; rather they filled him with a sense of completion somehow ~ as though in the passing of these things the people who loved him most might finally know him.
He flipped through the pages of the notebook, the flutter of fleeting images creating an animated story of who he was, until finally he landed on a blank page. He waited for the paper to whisper to him, as it always did, quietly revealing what it wanted. Meanwhile, in the expanse just beyond the little clump of grass where he sat, he heard the trees rustle like muted wind chimes, but there was something in the sound at that moment that made him look up: something a little too measured about the way the branches touched one another. Something a little too much like the sound of footsteps rather than that of clapping. In the distance, he could see the clouds bend in to kiss the land. Just then, something in the reeds moved.
He held very still.
“I hope you’ve warned her about you,” his mother had said leaning towards him, her shadow spanning the length of the room. All his life he’d struggled with people: the way their shrill voices cut into the warm flesh of an afternoon. The way their feet trampled over the secret messages left on abandoned scraps of paper; and the way their arms flailed about when they spoke, as though deep down they knew, as he did, that their words alone were not worth listening to. Like the forgotten silhouette of the younger brother in a boy’s first Cub Scout photograph, he’d learned to stand just beyond the focus of the lens, lost in the peripheral detail, both dreading and longing to be seen. He sighed quietly; He’d tried to warn her, but somehow, she already knew.
A few speckled rain drops announced themselves on the brim of his hat, but he refused to look up to see if there was a waiting deluge. Rather, his eyes remained focused on the sea of reeds and tall grass that greeted him like a lingering army. Each elegant blade swayed gently in the breeze, and yet, every so often, he could see little pockets of their brushed helmets jump suddenly, jolted not by the wind but by the passing of something hidden in their ranks. An animal, he thought in quiet bemusement, startled by his presence at first, but now screwing up its courage to come forward and take a look.
He remembered the first time she’d shown him her own notebook, full of scribbles and notes and bits of cheese. He’d noticed the way her hands shook a little as she asked him to forgive her for the lined paper ~ her constant training wheels. She’d blushed and tried to look away, but in the end found herself needing to see his face as he glimpsed this part of her for the first time. “There’s a story in us,” she’d said afterwards with eyes that were both hopeful and more than a little sad. She was right.
Just ahead of him the reeds began to part, and the shadows trapped by the densely clumped grass quietly leaked into the daylight. For a moment, nothing happened. He cocked his head a little, waiting. Then ~ gradually ~ a small hand extended from within the green gray darkness, its palm facing the sky. Pale and fragile, he could almost imagine its owner closing her eyes as the open air met her skin for perhaps the first time. Slowly, each delicate finger began to curl inward, as though guarding the secret treasure of a found pebble or a coin discovered heads-side up, until finally only the index finger remained straight ~ pointing at him. He watched in silence until at last it too began to curl gently, and repeatedly, beckoning him to come. For a long moment he did nothing.
Then he picked up his pen, and began to draw.
posted by: TheJongleur (reply)
post date: 01.24.06 (2:34 pm)
gosh.. it's still beautiful, jennifer.
ams