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Location: Midwest, United States

"Power lines, my travlin' partner on this ride. Dripping, pulling - up and down, in this sing song, their lullaby blends with the swaying train. I curl myself into this journey; folding myself up into this pocket of time. Old familiars greet me - that swing set in the back yard, the ruins of an old church covered in new birth and old - mixed with unremembered newness." Journal Entry, October 13, 2005~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~All words are copyrighted by GoGo on a Page/gogoroku.

Friday, February 16, 2007

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?

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Blogger Cate said...

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.

12:00 PM, February 16, 2007  
Blogger Lyrically speaking said...

Your words are deliciously well-written, thanks for the visit to my's an honor and I hope you return again.

12:24 PM, February 16, 2007  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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.


2:24 PM, February 16, 2007  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

All I can think of is Scarlett O'Hara: "Tomorrow is another day."

6:50 PM, February 16, 2007  
Blogger Elspeth said...

Lovely writing and the first photo is intriguing.

6:57 PM, February 16, 2007  
Blogger BendingPeak said...

Ahhh... you're back. Or maybe I have just missed soaking in your words.
Hope you have a restful weekend,

12:50 AM, February 17, 2007  
Blogger twitches said...

This post has a hypnotic, incantatory quality. Quite lovely.

8:06 PM, February 17, 2007  
Blogger paris parfait said...

This is a lovely, poetic post, Amanda! Well done.

1:00 PM, February 21, 2007  

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