pages from the sketchbook
Words from the sketchbook, collections of life happening randomly around me, I put pen to paper and draw the moments. These are my landscapes, my profiles, my sketches.
Bent head, eye brow a stencil of thin brown perched upward like a thought, her eyes looking downward toward some distance point on the floor. This is her pausing, thinking of the next thing to say. This is a moment that silence fills with potent conversations about uncertainty, the self pausing to collect all the practical that should come with a moment like this. She is in the moment and in this moment she weighs the risks of taking things on or letting the moment walk away.
~
There is a smell in the air, fragrant sprigs of lavender and burnt sandalwood mixing in a holy union of two strangers sharing a bench. Bookends of olfactory delights mixing in the shear joy where randomly they collide.
~
She said there will be a tomorrow as sundry steps of strangers collide with the air around her. She is a wreck of cold and worn wearing on her, speaking her words to the bitterness blowing around her in this harbor of glass and metal called the bus stop. I was an accidental witness to her resilience toward some unexplained pain she was fighting on this winter’s day. I was her witness.
~
Three children sit under lamplight and morning stars passing around some mystery found on the side of the street. A prize, a treasure, a tossed out thing that has become something for them to share.
~
The wind’s blowing hard, bitter crispness whirling all around. Snow drifts.
~
A cackle and a call out for the bus to come. People talk in murmurs of resistance to the icy day. Its cold, where’s the bus already?
~
There is a smell in the air, fragrant sprigs of lavender and burnt sandalwood mixing in a holy union of two strangers sharing a bench. Bookends of olfactory delights mixing in the shear joy where randomly they collide.
~
She said there will be a tomorrow as sundry steps of strangers collide with the air around her. She is a wreck of cold and worn wearing on her, speaking her words to the bitterness blowing around her in this harbor of glass and metal called the bus stop. I was an accidental witness to her resilience toward some unexplained pain she was fighting on this winter’s day. I was her witness.
~
Three children sit under lamplight and morning stars passing around some mystery found on the side of the street. A prize, a treasure, a tossed out thing that has become something for them to share.
~
The wind’s blowing hard, bitter crispness whirling all around. Snow drifts.
~
A cackle and a call out for the bus to come. People talk in murmurs of resistance to the icy day. Its cold, where’s the bus already?
Labels: photos, the scribbled thoughts series
8 Comments:
This is a scrumptious word feast--my favorite line: "Bookends of olfactory delights mixing in the shear joy where randomly they collide."
Damn, that's good.
xo
Your words are deliciously well-written, thanks for the visit to my blog...it's an honor and I hope you return again.
Thanks there.
Cate, your words honor me since I am such a fan of your words too.
L.S. You're a new found wonder to enjoy.
As for my words, I really do like etching them on a page.
~GoGo
All I can think of is Scarlett O'Hara: "Tomorrow is another day."
Lovely writing and the first photo is intriguing.
Ahhh... you're back. Or maybe I have just missed soaking in your words.
Hope you have a restful weekend,
Heather
This post has a hypnotic, incantatory quality. Quite lovely.
This is a lovely, poetic post, Amanda! Well done.
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