The truth is in the eyes of the buffalo, The way of gentleness which conquers all hate, The life which cannot be put out. He wanders not on accident, as if far from home. He is there to be found, to be taken and led, Leading us through all in the utmost humility. (after reading the chapter “How to Tell a True War Story” in the book, The Things They Carried)
Is evidence found in or on the text? No answer comes forth straight, nor ever does. If habit only answers, I say, in. But when inquiring further, what if on? If evidence is only standing on, Then text has nothing deeper than the skin. A surface with no depth in which to plunge. Sometimes, I think, ‘tis fitting to say on. If evidence is found not on but in, Then volume it requires, not area, Not on a plane, but wide and open space. Sadly evidence may sometimes be just on.
See how the grass stands, grown, without a roof, Four patches kept from sun to make them thrive, Their tires gone, yet imprints left in life Give ears to hear their presence clearly move. ‘Tis from a different time and now dull red, Its former brilliance faded through long wear; Though steering wheel and handles used till bare, Tires run long miles to change have often led. Not left to rot, a remnant of excess, Not rightly called antique, as some would say, But centered to the straight and narrow way. Last of a cohort, made for nothing less Than…
I was clicking away some pinata-punishing photos at a birthday party for a friend when I heard a disturbing sound from my camera. Thinking the shutter may have folded, I figured I was holding a fancy paperweight anyway, so I tried shooting again: the viewfinder went black. Interesting. I shot again: the viewfinder went half black. I realized my mirror had issues; not the shutter.