She was all soft clothes and pale skin as she slowly walked past my window, a silhouette of shoulder length hair resting on slender shoulders drifting by on my curtains. My cat watched it dance across the linen, tilting her little head as the shadow stopped to sway before preceding forward.
I put my finger to my lips as the cat blinked up at me. Stepping gently over the feline, I crept over to the door and stood there staring at the beams. Foot steps as quiet as the sun rising in the morning stepped closer and closer to the door. They seemed to be leaving before they arrived. Would she knock this time? I still had the letters she wrote me only a year before; I kept them tucked away by that place in the cupboards, the one where the sun sits just so at that early hour, between the flour and sugar. Ah the letters.
I can remember that day. An open door, swung ajar after watching her from a distance, cloudy skies, startled eyes, scattered apologies; she shoved the pieces of paper into my chest and knocked me backward. And then she ran. Hard and fast, like there was nothing behind her, as if she had not wanted to come, like she had never given me a piece of her on those scraps of paper.
Only a year before.
I read them, those words and prose and heart, on those long afternoons when I wished only to look out my window and see someone walking up to my door, to chat about anything, everything; "coffee? Yes, take a seat. Do you take sugar?" How could one get to know someone only through those things we try to put between ink and paper? How could she inscribed her heart onto the page and run away like that?
But the words, so soft, like moonlight reflecting on water. I could forgive her.
I had written letters of my own you know, without, of course, an address or a name to assign them to. Just, the girl. But I wrote. Sometimes through long, lonely nights; just me and the moon and my pen. Words of how I was sorry. Of how I missed her. Of how I wished to meet, really meet, and maybe we could talk this out, yeah?
I can remember that day. An open door, swung ajar after watching her from a distance, cloudy skies, startled eyes, scattered apologies; she shoved the pieces of paper into my chest and knocked me backward. And then she ran. Hard and fast, like there was nothing behind her, as if she had not wanted to come, like she had never given me a piece of her on those scraps of paper.
Only a year before.
I read them, those words and prose and heart, on those long afternoons when I wished only to look out my window and see someone walking up to my door, to chat about anything, everything; "coffee? Yes, take a seat. Do you take sugar?" How could one get to know someone only through those things we try to put between ink and paper? How could she inscribed her heart onto the page and run away like that?
But the words, so soft, like moonlight reflecting on water. I could forgive her.
I had written letters of my own you know, without, of course, an address or a name to assign them to. Just, the girl. But I wrote. Sometimes through long, lonely nights; just me and the moon and my pen. Words of how I was sorry. Of how I missed her. Of how I wished to meet, really meet, and maybe we could talk this out, yeah?
The foot steps stopped. I could see her shadow seep under the door frame; was it just a phantom on the other side, just a memory? Perhaps a dream?
I rested my forehead against the cold wood. Silence. Would she knock this time? I heard a soft scratch by the base of the door, just like when the sparrows hop around on summer afternoons. A letter slipped in, bumping against my bare foot. Her shadow swayed a little.
"I know what you're doing right now." The words blurted out before I could stop them. I paused to cringe at myself. But I kept going, soft, as if I was coaxing a child. "I watched you from my window last year, do you remember? You are raising your hand, about to knock." I paused, listening for any sound from the other side. The wind sighed through the cracks in the wood. "I know, I know you tried. I watched the struggle on your face and I saw you try again. I wanted so badly to come to the door, to say hello, to let you in and hug your tears away. And I tried. The door swung open. I wondered why you shook your head as you backed away from me." A concealed sob escaped through the door. "Then you ran away." I closed my eyes. Would she knock this time? "All I want is to say hello, face to face. So much to say, so many words to sift though. It has been a year. But I won't... if that's not what you want."
No response. Had she run again? I took a deep breathe. "Won't you knock this time?"
A breeze blew through the open window, gently picking up the curtains. A glimpse; auburn hair in the air, soft cotton rushing by.
Gone.
I swung the door open, this time just a basket of flowers lay on the ground, goldenrod and chrysanthemum highlighted by the soft sun; as if she had never been there. Just a basket of flowers as if I never read those letters.
I leaped over it.
I saw her through the trees. Over there, yes, morning light embracing hair, a hand holding hat in place.
Just a name. I just need a name.
I rested my forehead against the cold wood. Silence. Would she knock this time? I heard a soft scratch by the base of the door, just like when the sparrows hop around on summer afternoons. A letter slipped in, bumping against my bare foot. Her shadow swayed a little.
"I know what you're doing right now." The words blurted out before I could stop them. I paused to cringe at myself. But I kept going, soft, as if I was coaxing a child. "I watched you from my window last year, do you remember? You are raising your hand, about to knock." I paused, listening for any sound from the other side. The wind sighed through the cracks in the wood. "I know, I know you tried. I watched the struggle on your face and I saw you try again. I wanted so badly to come to the door, to say hello, to let you in and hug your tears away. And I tried. The door swung open. I wondered why you shook your head as you backed away from me." A concealed sob escaped through the door. "Then you ran away." I closed my eyes. Would she knock this time? "All I want is to say hello, face to face. So much to say, so many words to sift though. It has been a year. But I won't... if that's not what you want."
No response. Had she run again? I took a deep breathe. "Won't you knock this time?"
A breeze blew through the open window, gently picking up the curtains. A glimpse; auburn hair in the air, soft cotton rushing by.
Gone.
I swung the door open, this time just a basket of flowers lay on the ground, goldenrod and chrysanthemum highlighted by the soft sun; as if she had never been there. Just a basket of flowers as if I never read those letters.
I leaped over it.
I saw her through the trees. Over there, yes, morning light embracing hair, a hand holding hat in place.
Just a name. I just need a name.
Is it me she doesn't want to see?
I called out as I ran through the grove of trees but the air seemed to suffocate my words. I begged her to wait. I asked her name, where she was from, why did she leave the letters? But I knew the real question burning away at my flesh. Why is she running from me? Again. The letters had melted my heart. Could they have been of love? I don't know what love is, but perhaps I glimpsed it through the letters and commas. Promises of meeting for the first time, of staying, actually staying, to talk and share and dance in the moon light. She said she missed me, but I don't remember meeting. She said we used to play together as children during those last summer days. She said she was sorry. She said she would come back, someday, you know, when things got better. Why is she running?
It almost seemed to be a ghost who rushed around the tree ahead. Perhaps she was only a memory. But I had to know. Breathe seemed to escape faster than I could take it in, each hurried gasp an accent to the fading of my hope. I reached the spot where I saw her last. I spun around, looking in between trees for any sight of her pale skin. How could she run so hard?
She has had more practice than you.
I called out as I ran through the grove of trees but the air seemed to suffocate my words. I begged her to wait. I asked her name, where she was from, why did she leave the letters? But I knew the real question burning away at my flesh. Why is she running from me? Again. The letters had melted my heart. Could they have been of love? I don't know what love is, but perhaps I glimpsed it through the letters and commas. Promises of meeting for the first time, of staying, actually staying, to talk and share and dance in the moon light. She said she missed me, but I don't remember meeting. She said we used to play together as children during those last summer days. She said she was sorry. She said she would come back, someday, you know, when things got better. Why is she running?
It almost seemed to be a ghost who rushed around the tree ahead. Perhaps she was only a memory. But I had to know. Breathe seemed to escape faster than I could take it in, each hurried gasp an accent to the fading of my hope. I reached the spot where I saw her last. I spun around, looking in between trees for any sight of her pale skin. How could she run so hard?
She has had more practice than you.
I saw nothing.
She was gone.
"I just want to know your name." I whispered to the trees. They stretched high above, looking down on me. I could almost feel their condescension. Why does he worry about a girl he has never met? Now look at him. She left the poor puppy behind to sulk in the woods. Pathetic. Just leave her be.
The rustling of the leaves, swaying branches; it was in the air, in the ground, on the breeze. I had lost her.
I turned to go. Another year.
Would I see her again?
Was she gone, forever?
Because of me?
"I just want to know your name." I whispered to the trees. They stretched high above, looking down on me. I could almost feel their condescension. Why does he worry about a girl he has never met? Now look at him. She left the poor puppy behind to sulk in the woods. Pathetic. Just leave her be.
The rustling of the leaves, swaying branches; it was in the air, in the ground, on the breeze. I had lost her.
I turned to go. Another year.
Would I see her again?
Was she gone, forever?
Because of me?
Would I care if she came back again?
A hand grabbed mine. I turned and gazed at brown eyes. They were sad. She pulled me close to whisper in my ear.
"My name is September."
Please my dear friends, bear with my attempts at writing a story. It is dear to me, like a creased letter that remembers the number of times it was folded between index finger and thumb; it is something that I didn't ever think I could unfold and lay out across the table, letting others come and sit and read over it. I wanted to keep it in my back pocket, just me and my thoughts, stowed away; that is, after all, how I am most of the time anyway.
But I have decided to store it here in my little space, letting you, my friends, glance at a small piece of my inner world, with all it's cringe worthy paragraphs and prose that may crush me in a few years. It is with trembling hands that I pass this along the table to you and I hope, as you pick it up, with all it's yellowed paper and faded ink, that maybe you'll hear something of my heart, something of my home that is only in the elsewhere, and of the girl that is September.
A small note about the photo.
I made this image after some time passed, following the composition of the first little draft of my short story. (Aha, key word, short.) My mind, as it does, flooded with the possibilities of what I could create and do and envision with this piece of me I had not excepted to create from, and I was excited with this different kind of discovering what exactly it was that I wished to create; from story to concept to Photoshop, from heart to pen to print.
Also, the other thing that made this shoot different was that I lost my tripod (cough...how?) and had to use a book on top of a chair on top of a table... I did, however, manage to keep track of my tripod head. My talents abound I know.
I still have not found that particular tripod...
Yes, it is true and can be said that all my images come from a story within me, in fact they are, in themselves, many stories coming and going. But this was the first time the story was the main focus, coming in by itself, while the picture was it's accompaniment. As I said, I created from a place I didn't entirely know existed in me, it was around a corner that I had not noticed before, unknowingly bumping into it, yet finding exactly what I was looking for.
It is why I create, to grow, to find new corners of myself to explore and roam, remaining always curious, always seeing the world with my eyes that see it for what it could be and what is within me and my stories. And then it is to all of you that I get to share myself with, and I can't say just exactly how grateful I am to do so with earthly words. But these will have to suffice; thank you.
Oh thank you.
Guys, remotes can be hard. And sometimes I can't tell when they're going off. But now I have this picture. So is this really a bad thing? Also, this is so accurate it kind of hurts with how my sister and I get through photo shoots: many weird faces and contorted bodies and so much laughter.
I feel like this is an accurate photo for how my life goes a lot of the time. Intense concentration as things fall down around me...
I still ask myself if I am indeed proud of this image. And the only answer I can find within me is Yes, I think I am. I accomplished a lot with this image, both technically ( I used so much duct tape) and conceptually, and in the end, it looks pretty cool, even if I think it isn't perfect. And sometimes, when my mind is just tired and I'm staring at my computer for way too long, all I can think about when it comes to my images, is that they are just simply, cool. A small, unqualified word, but friends, it's all I've got sometimes.
So guys, an image that is of September and of memories we hold in our little baskets. My sister, who so kindly modeled for me as I mentioned before, calls this image the September Lady and I slowly adopted that title with every time I asked her to look at my picture and see what she thought of it.
Goodbye September. Until next year.
A hand grabbed mine. I turned and gazed at brown eyes. They were sad. She pulled me close to whisper in my ear.
"My name is September."
Please my dear friends, bear with my attempts at writing a story. It is dear to me, like a creased letter that remembers the number of times it was folded between index finger and thumb; it is something that I didn't ever think I could unfold and lay out across the table, letting others come and sit and read over it. I wanted to keep it in my back pocket, just me and my thoughts, stowed away; that is, after all, how I am most of the time anyway.
But I have decided to store it here in my little space, letting you, my friends, glance at a small piece of my inner world, with all it's cringe worthy paragraphs and prose that may crush me in a few years. It is with trembling hands that I pass this along the table to you and I hope, as you pick it up, with all it's yellowed paper and faded ink, that maybe you'll hear something of my heart, something of my home that is only in the elsewhere, and of the girl that is September.
A small note about the photo.
I made this image after some time passed, following the composition of the first little draft of my short story. (Aha, key word, short.) My mind, as it does, flooded with the possibilities of what I could create and do and envision with this piece of me I had not excepted to create from, and I was excited with this different kind of discovering what exactly it was that I wished to create; from story to concept to Photoshop, from heart to pen to print.
Also, the other thing that made this shoot different was that I lost my tripod (cough...how?) and had to use a book on top of a chair on top of a table... I did, however, manage to keep track of my tripod head. My talents abound I know.
I still have not found that particular tripod...
Yes, it is true and can be said that all my images come from a story within me, in fact they are, in themselves, many stories coming and going. But this was the first time the story was the main focus, coming in by itself, while the picture was it's accompaniment. As I said, I created from a place I didn't entirely know existed in me, it was around a corner that I had not noticed before, unknowingly bumping into it, yet finding exactly what I was looking for.
It is why I create, to grow, to find new corners of myself to explore and roam, remaining always curious, always seeing the world with my eyes that see it for what it could be and what is within me and my stories. And then it is to all of you that I get to share myself with, and I can't say just exactly how grateful I am to do so with earthly words. But these will have to suffice; thank you.
Oh thank you.
Guys, remotes can be hard. And sometimes I can't tell when they're going off. But now I have this picture. So is this really a bad thing? Also, this is so accurate it kind of hurts with how my sister and I get through photo shoots: many weird faces and contorted bodies and so much laughter.
I feel like this is an accurate photo for how my life goes a lot of the time. Intense concentration as things fall down around me...
I still ask myself if I am indeed proud of this image. And the only answer I can find within me is Yes, I think I am. I accomplished a lot with this image, both technically ( I used so much duct tape) and conceptually, and in the end, it looks pretty cool, even if I think it isn't perfect. And sometimes, when my mind is just tired and I'm staring at my computer for way too long, all I can think about when it comes to my images, is that they are just simply, cool. A small, unqualified word, but friends, it's all I've got sometimes.
So guys, an image that is of September and of memories we hold in our little baskets. My sister, who so kindly modeled for me as I mentioned before, calls this image the September Lady and I slowly adopted that title with every time I asked her to look at my picture and see what she thought of it.
Goodbye September. Until next year.
Slaayyyyy Stacey! Oh and you to Brad! Amazing talent as always :)
ReplyDeleteHAHAHAH Thanks.
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