Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Becoming Story, Uncovering Self

I draw darkness.

The 4B pencil leaves a slick glide of graphite on my paper and I feel the damp air, cool with dew not yet fallen, clammy on my thin, child shoulders.

I pause here, mind open. Behind me the infinity of dark forest, tall selves of trees shifting and whispering deeper darkness against the night sky above.

My bare knees locked, toes dig into the gravel between rough patches of grass, looking for warmth from the earth under my feet.

In front of me the paper sucks up lines and slowly becomes one with the heavy night air in my mind.  In front of my shaking child-self, the door opens. A woman's arm bars the lamplight from within as it slides across the porch and down the dusty steps.

I wait in the moon's cold glow.

I am here forever.


  1. Lovely word poem and lovely drawing, though a little chilly for the back bone :)

  2. Thanks, Andrew. I warmed up once the drawing was finished. You warm now?

  3. That is a powerful image. It's the kind of thing that lets the viewer tell a thousand stories to themselves. Good job!

    1. Thanks, Linda. I would love to hear some of those stories from you one day...

  4. I can feel the atmosphere that you created. well done.


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