there is a photograph that is waiting inside of me. i know what it looks like, or what it seems like, but i do not know what the photograph is of. the thing that it is of is irrelevant, or so it seems to me. there is great space in this photograph but not emptiness. there is vaguely shape, somewhat direction - outward, onward, and yet it suggests inward too from a bottom shelf in me, soft tones, and light, obscured light, diffused light, emanating, inviting, allowing light. others take this photograph and i look and recognize this yearning in myself but i can not see where to take this picture in my life. there are so many solids in my life. there is so much being. this photograph that i wait for, that i yearn for, is beneath the being of all things, as though it is springtime and i am a young blind woman opening the door, stepping out onto the warm grass, anticipating scent.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
the photo
there is a photograph that is waiting inside of me. i know what it looks like, or what it seems like, but i do not know what the photograph is of. the thing that it is of is irrelevant, or so it seems to me. there is great space in this photograph but not emptiness. there is vaguely shape, somewhat direction - outward, onward, and yet it suggests inward too from a bottom shelf in me, soft tones, and light, obscured light, diffused light, emanating, inviting, allowing light. others take this photograph and i look and recognize this yearning in myself but i can not see where to take this picture in my life. there are so many solids in my life. there is so much being. this photograph that i wait for, that i yearn for, is beneath the being of all things, as though it is springtime and i am a young blind woman opening the door, stepping out onto the warm grass, anticipating scent.
