My car is aimed at a horizon of grass and asphalt, consuming highway in one of those stretches of earth that seems to go on forever. I’m in a world of transition: away from home and not quite there yet.
The drive passes in mile markers, hedgerows, overpasses, and roadside signs for fresh strawberries. Everything is bright green and sky blue and endless-endless-endless. Time is relative in stretches like this, and I imagine my car motionless, its wheels turning as the world rotates underneath. I am a ball bearing perfectly balanced atop a spinning globe.
Then a sudden yellow burst in the sea of green. A field of mustard flowers—a sun-bright flash of light like a sunset reflecting on a calm sea.
If I lived in that house, I’d be home. I’d follow the golden light to my front porch, and I’d collapse and stare out into the sea of yellow. I’d sleep in amber light. I’d stick to the earth as it spun me into my future.
But just as suddenly the flash is gone, and I’m speeding toward the neverending horizon.
Best advertising patent ever.
I had to draw a chair for an online class. Here’s what I came up with. I think my favorite aspect is how clear the chair is at first glance, but how awkward it becomes as you focus on details.
Like everything, I suppose.
[interesting read from a true classic. -gj]
In the late afternoon on Chestnut Street, the sun cleaves shadows on its westward slide to the horizon. The world reorganizes itself in shifting light and sudden contrasts.
Above a storefront, a single carved antelope gallops in a world of concrete and steel and steam. A survivor-symbol of some forgotten past, it chases its shadow east, away from the setting sun.
I find no obvious clues as to its meaning—nothing nearby springs to mind, and the storefront below seems to be unrelated.
Perhaps it is the last of a herd: the strongest, and by default, the weakest. It is a lone runner, in a breathless escape to freedom and survival. It is muscle and stone, shadow and sun, life and death.
But it’s not dead, not lost, not yet.
I love these little remnants in the gloaming. And I must remember to keep my eyes open, my chin up.
[must look away. urge to dance rising to uncontrollable levels. -gj]
Location: Valley Forge
Time: 1:00 p.m.
- Sinkholes are in right now.
- I could easily have confused this sinkhole for a giant’s footstep when I was a kid.
- This sign is very small, and dependent on one angle of approach. What if I were to approach from any other angle? Death by sinkhole.
- I like the pictogram. It’s quite clear. That guy is definitely falling into that sinkhole.
- I bet you could use that pictogram at a water park. “Warning: Fun and Wedgies.”
- Sinkhole: 1. n. An anomaly in which the ground loosens, falls, and creates a chasm. 2. n. A bad relationship : Man, that’s girl’s a sinkhole.
- This is a really big field.
street corner. 5:15 p.m.
A long walk from your apartment, west and then back again. The sun is falling, taking the warmth out of the shadows, quickening your steps.
She holds your hand tightly, follows you over cobblestones and along winding walkways. She smiles at some small joke, then tightens her grip to remind you she’s still there. As you stop at a street corner, your silence is filled with thoughts about nothings and everythings.
The city watches, thunderous in its expansions. Gusts of wind carry siren songs and jackhammer echoes, as metal signs whine in rhythm and banners fray at their edges. Cars and crowds pulse through its arteries.
But in a burst of sunlight, the city reminds you of its quiet erosions, its whispers from centuries past, the way the sunlight caresses its contours with the touch of long-known love. Some things do not wash away in floods of fancy. We can also build things with care, to last forever.
The light snaps green and you walk on, toward your home, where you will sleep and dream together.
She wears her pain as a cheery disposition, uses her hurt like an armor of pretense. I am happy and strong, she projects. Most of her friends don’t notice her struggle. They are busy with the loud and insistent inner monologues reminding them of their own insecurities.
There are moments when her pain is too acute, when her sharp loneliness touches her core in a cold, nauseous chill. If this happens in public, she finds refuge in a soda sip or shaky bathroom break. Sometimes she stares out the window and counts leaves, or sidewalk squares.
But she more often has such moments in private, when her mind slackens its grip on her portrayal and constricts her heart instead. Alone, her movements slow and her eyes close. In the loud blackness of her thoughts, she can’t decide whether she would rather open her eyes to a different world, or never open them again.
She finds herself in her quiet office, stark in its sterility and white fluorescent light. I am happy and strong, she projects, waving to a coworker on her way to refill her coffee mug. Or maybe I will be soon.
Love Seat by James Hopkins.
[have a seat. -gj]