Photo by Evan Jake Cohen
He passes from the warmth of the interior to cold sunshine.
The stilled engine ticks away its excess heat, returned to inanimate.
He stretches his legs beside the road, feeling the earth revolve beneath him.
Deep green Fir offer their tips to paint the pale sky blue.
His breath condenses in the air – silent words from foreign dictionaries.
She smiles at him from behind the sky’s reflection.
He feels his life at the nexus of his ribs and raises the camera to capture.
She blocks his view of her face with a raised hand against the intrusion; the illusion.
The children stir from strapped-in sleep, irritated within the car’s warm cocoon.
There is no traffic here; they are alone in the universe.
The stilled engine ticks away its excess heat, returned to inanimate.
He stretches his legs beside the road, feeling the earth revolve beneath him.
Deep green Fir offer their tips to paint the pale sky blue.
His breath condenses in the air – silent words from foreign dictionaries.
She smiles at him from behind the sky’s reflection.
He feels his life at the nexus of his ribs and raises the camera to capture.
She blocks his view of her face with a raised hand against the intrusion; the illusion.
The children stir from strapped-in sleep, irritated within the car’s warm cocoon.
There is no traffic here; they are alone in the universe.
11 comments:
fantastic snapshot of a moment...
How can it tick away, looking like that?
Beautiful.
I love the line, "He feels his life at the nexus of his ribs...."
Stacy: a real moment too :)
James: how many times do I gots to explain the difference between literary and literal :o
Jenny: Thank you and welcome :)
I have to somehow reduce the 100,000 or so words that evoked a reaction from me over both the picture and the written artwork beneath it.
I've looked back at my favourite posts from Mr Iscariot over time, and have come to the conclusion that you write on a different level to most other bloggers.
No offence to those who try to reproduce their innermost thoughts and fail.. miserably. I am also one of this group.
Pisces, you have it my friend.. you are beyond the fringe of genius when it comes to 'not writing' what we feel. The fewer the pen strokes, the greater the depth of the feeling.
The picture sits well upon the words, and was an extremely accurate choice for this post.
For anyone who see's only an old car, this post was wasted upon them.
My own opinion, and I stand by every word.
Well said and well cherished memories of similar scenes.
Jimmy: what you are seeing is a form of distilled laziness on my part - I only came to this sort of creative writing at age 40ish, have previously only spent my output on visual pieces - so I come from the viewpoint that every stroke should count without being too obvious - dunno if that makes sense :]
Walking Man: It's funny, I wouldn't call this a cherished memory; merely a memory that stayed with me - possibly because it was an unusual setting :)
Perfect sense, and one that I understand completely.
Just found you through friend blogger's blog.
Your blog is great.
Have a lovely time!
the image and words both connect and fragment... it is this slackening of the strings that is one of the things I like so much about your work.
and this car put me in mind of a face,,, I had to look back at it...
Betty: Thanks for visiting :)
Harlequin: "slackening of the strings" I like that - I'm not up on music theory but the minor chords always seem to penetrate deeper :}
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