Saturday, February 4, 2012
No Photo Saturday
I like carrying a camera everywhere I go. I like chronicling my daily journey in digital form. I derive great pleasure capturing a child's smile while tossing stale bread to a hungry duck; freeze-framing a young man swinging aluminum bat at speeding ball, and stopping action at bolt of lightning streaking a midnight sky.
When I snap a history-in-the-making political event, home accident resulting in broken toe, or sun setting in Key West and upload it to BookOrBust to share with readers, I fulfill my deep passion to participate in art.
At this time I am sans camera.
While modern technology is a marvelous thing, it is words on paper, er, computer screen, that create lasting impression in this writer's mind's eye.
Here are a few examples by a few of my favorite writers:
by Robert Frost
He has dust in his eyes and a fan for a wing,
A leg akimbo with which he can sing,
And a mouthful of dyestuff instead of a sting.
A Tale of Two Cities
by Charles Dickens
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way -- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
by Summer Wood
And then something happens. It starts when the frown that wrinkled her mouth loses its foothold and the edge of her lip lifts into a grin that spreads across her whole face. It makes me look at her, straight on, at those dark brown laughing eyes and the scar that left a lightning streak down the center of her face, and it's such a good face, such a hopeful, irreverent face, that I start to laugh myself, and it feels rusty, an unfamiliar sound creaking out of my throat, but we go on laughing and I get used to it, I get so I like it, the sound of my laughter and hers I get so I like it a lot.
Water for Elephants
by Sara Gruen
I can't eat. I can't sleep. And I certainly can't study. I stare at a single paragraph for a quarter of an hour but can't absorb it. How can I, when behind the words, on the white background of the paper, I'm watching an endless loop of my parents' deaths? Watching as their cream-colored Buick flies through the guardrail and over the side of the bridge to avoid Old Mr. McPherson's red truck? Old Mr. McPherson, who confessed as he was led from the scene that he wasn't entirely sure what side of the road he should have been on and thinks that maybe he hit the gas instead of the brake? Old Mr. McPherson, who showed up at church one legendary Easter without trousers?
Read. Read. Read.
"Nobody ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have tried while trying to write one."--Robert Byrne
Until this time next time.
See you in print,
Linda Della Donna