Zadown Posted June 9, 2003 Report Posted June 9, 2003 Low growl of a car fades to distance. The silence is profound, something hard to attain so close to a city, beautiful in it's rarity. Absence of noise pours extra strength to the vision before me - even the faint smells sharpen, turn more green. I stand alone in a canyon of stone. Behind me is nothing important. In front of me a deep black tunnel gapes open, a pair of steel rails running inside. On both sides is a sheer stone wall, made taller by a barrier of birches. In the low light the dew-soaked trees and weeds are vividly, deeply green. A color impossible to paint, too real to accurately remember. Standing there on the rails, I realize what it would be like to gaze into the cave of a dragon.
Zadown Posted June 9, 2003 Author Report Posted June 9, 2003 I reach the beach with wet shoes. One of those forgotten places, near civilization but paths avoid it. Two tires greet me, half submerged into the lake. They rule supreme over an assortment of smaller trash sitting there looking smug. Behind me cars pass the spot one at a time. They sing their nightly solo of steel and rubber and asphalt, knowing they will be relegated to a minor part in the chorus during the day. Interludes are hummed by the forest, cried by the birds - a different piece altogether and far older. My gaze sweeps from left to right, notes the road leading nowhere, glides over the mirror-smooth water and stops at an odd tripod of wood. I do not know what it was, or is - but I can see it is huge, the part that has been exposed by the drought well over twice my height. Behind it glow the constellations of a factory's lights, bright yellow and orange and blue stars. I still let my gaze linger on the tripod, idle hands trying to find the camera I never had. In the end I nod to it, sagely, as if knowing what it was all about.
Ayshela Posted June 9, 2003 Report Posted June 9, 2003 Beautiful. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but i think such a vivid word picture is worth a whole roll of film.
smallscale_mind_games Posted June 10, 2003 Report Posted June 10, 2003 They're better than photographs. These image paragraphs capture the feeling of the photographer. They have more soul, more taste, if you will.
Zadown Posted July 4, 2003 Author Report Posted July 4, 2003 The water is the same temperature as my skin. I float in a silent void, dimly feeling the borderline between the lake and the sky. I let myself forget my limbs, my lungs, knowing that the secret of floating is to not to concentrate on it. I forget my nearby friend, the lingering smell of smoke and soot, the pier twisted by moving ice in winter, the road waiting to bring me back to civilization. The sound of my breathing reverberates through me, is one of the few sensations left. Above me darkening sky is filled with clouds, all different shades of grey. Trees crowd the edges of my vision, a black-green frame for the picture. I can almost forget who I am, here.
Zadown Posted March 16, 2008 Author Report Posted March 16, 2008 Snow everywhere, almost late from the winter party. Wet, large flakes, a visiting tour before spring will whisk them away. They would make a forest beautiful, not these cages of concrete and metal. Through a gap I spot an urban zombie. I doubt anybody knows where he is - his posture tells me he doesn't, for sure, brains drowning in ethanol. Nothing to see there. I still pause and watch him lurch forward, hobbled pair of steps at a time. A poisoned man walking. If he could raise his gaze and comprehend what he saw, somebody standing a level above him in an uniform of blue goretex, would he see pity in my eyes? Cruel amusement? Or merely the cold, measuring look of a writer? I shrug and continue my rounds.
Mirrizin Posted March 28, 2008 Report Posted March 28, 2008 (Gwai showed this to me, and I got a momentary inspiration from memory. Hope I'm not diverging too far from the theme) Groggy, I lie on the cold ground in a plastic sack surrounded by a loose-fitting waterproof cocoon. I hear some conversation and strange sounds. Curiosity slowly drags me across the gravel path between rest and wakefulness, until I caterpillar-worm my way out of the sack and unzip the flap of my civilized cave. Some leaders are standing around, chuckling and looking into the distant trees, from which our supplies are supposed to be suspended in bags, a practice called "bear bagging." Note it is not called "raccoon bagging." The wily not-rodents have developed a plan, I am told. They can't jump to the height of our food, so instead they climb the branch above, launch themselves into the airy void, and grab onto the "bear bags" with both paws. The lucky ones hang on. The really lucky ones fall off, taking shreds of bag with them, then they climb the tree and do the whole ride again, not unlike certain roller coaster enthusiasts. Annoyed, but entertained, we keep a safe distance as the beasties enjoy their party, at our expense. I can almost hear them laughing as fatigue settles in and I crawl back into my plastic cocoon.
Recommended Posts