One Who Wanders (abiona) wrote,
One Who Wanders

  • Mood:

And you've forgotten how to see!

I can't sleep. I turned out the lights hours ago; I was awake so long that the blackness resolved into visible shapes, so long that lying down any longer seemed like a waste of time, and I have since spent my time resizing photos and writing this entry. I have been awake so long, I am hungry again.

As I flopped about, I felt very short of breath, as though my lungs had somehow managed to shrink on me and developed a hole in them somewhere. It occurred to me that this issue is most likely the latest manifestation of self-induced tension. I'm doing this to myself. Again! Each time I think I have learned how to handle my stress differently, it turns out to really be just the same old habits with new faces. Upon figuring that out, I then proceeded to endure the throes of another realization. Far too often, I am ashamed of myself for no good reason. That single word clarifies why I often quake in my shoes and fail to do so much that I otherwise could. It is why I do not go outside, why I secretly believe all compliments are wrong, or that all my virtues are merely vice in disguise.


When I went for a walk the other day, I found a little playground tucked into the small space between someone's house and the shadow of a hill. Yellow, red, blue; the brightly painted, slightly faded equipment stood out against the abundant green cover that coated the land behind it. There was a garden of weeds with little white flowers and little white butterflies, and as I sat on a swing, tiny seeds of white fluff sprinkled from the trees above. There was only a squirrel and I present, and had he not been making sounds at me, it would have been a very silent place. It felt rather strange to see a button but no child with a sweater missing one, a water fountain that had been boarded up, an empty, brilliantly colored play space lacking the play.


None of the graffiti in this city is of the complex, vibrant type that sometimes makes it into textbooks. Some of it, however, is quite striking in both message and location. "ONE CHILD" "PLEASE RUN" "AWAY WITH" "THE SEEDS" stretched across the bottom span of a bridge, ignoring both the roadway and the sidewalk above, and the fatal fall below. It had to have been deliberate, planned. I could see the words from quite a distance, so the letters were large. And to choose the lowest girders, down where only the people who constructed that bridge have walked, so far away from the protective rails? Well! Where's the impression if no one can read your words, and if they are where just anyone could reach? To think that someone traversed those steel beams to write that phrase chills me!


Resizing these photos has reminded me of a little situation. Back during Labor Day weekend, my mother drove out in a shiny red convertible for a little visit. She brought her digital camera and various equipmentbits with her, and we went out with the top down, taking pictures, seeking some visual aids to show to people when I am asked why I moved out Here and why I really have no intention of moving back There. At one point, a random photographer stopped us and started chatting. My mother claims that he was more or less attempting to flirt with the young girl and the big camera, but I was not paying much attention. His conversation ended rather abruptly, and he gave me a little scrap of paper with his email/website on it. Since he was involved in a group of local photographers, the theory was that I would eventually email him and seek info on this social connection, thereby providing me with people to talk to. I visited this website once on my mother's laptop, but now, I can no longer find that scrap of paper, the URL, or my memory of what his name is. It is proving quite difficult to Google him as a result. Gwar! I need to find a better way of storing these important scraps.

  • the gallery waltz

    Were you waiting? Room through room, breathing, never speaking. We play with glances, with pace, the sound of your steps, my movement in the next…

  • driving in heels is really weird

    The theatre had a curiously mixed personality to its decor. Originally a burlesque house, it borrowed various "classical" elements from sea nymphs to…

  • scooter to, scooter fro

    I just fell flat on my ass in dance class! I was not as cognizant of my position on the floor as I usually am, and consequently was much closer to…

  • Post a new comment


    Comments allowed for friends only

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded