Posts Tagged ‘Isobelle Carmody’

 

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

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i like that phrase. The small perfection of it.

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what it means:  the fraught anticipation rising from the knowledge that there is something more to come.

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the implication is that an event- the dropping of the first shoe  – occurred and that by so doing, implied and heralded a second event –  the dropping of the second shoe, the timing, the force of its fall, beyond your control. 

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tram stop

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the others in the crew might have experienced exactly this combination of  powerlessness and inexorability in the Enola Gay after Thomas obeyed the command from Tibbets.  And Tibbets, commander of a crew barely out of their teens could not surely have imagined the dreadful impact of that dropping shoe, when he allowed his saucy, insouciant, uncomprehending smile earlier in the day to be captured forever in accusatory black and white; Could not have imagined the forces that he and the rest of the crew had set in motion with their obedience, as inescapable as Daddy’s descending fat black foot.

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 one small step for man, one great and terrible boot in the face of humanity forever.

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crow

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and how did Jacob feel, three days later, giving the same unthinkable answer again? Did he feel like the bomb dropping on Nagasaki was the other shoe? How did he justify the second drop, when the consequences of the first had been so dreadful that one of the baby-faced continue reading

 

On silence

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quiet

pictures by Jan Stolba

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I think a lot about silence.

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zamek1

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i used to equate silence with power because for most of my life, I felt powerless and was talkative.  Silent people seemed mysteriously powerful to me, and I saw words and speech as lesser weapons for survival. They were all I had, however, so the only answer seemed to be to become very very deft at words. Still, silence trumped words every time.

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i tended to take people’s silences personally.   I started out wondering what the silent person was thinking. Then I worried they were mad. Then I worried they were mad at me.  (Or upset. Or angry or insulted or unhappy… )  I equated silence with some form of negative response to me. (This is a weird spin on the ‘its all about me’ approach to life, if you think about it.  Because rather than it being egocentric, it is actually an expression of paranoia. )

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silence made me nervous and when I am nervous, I  jabber. I lose my dexterity and cleverness with words. They spill and clash and clang and honk from me. They say nothing save that I am nervous.

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gui30

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i used to jabber a lot more than I do now, but being older and worn in some, I have learned a few things about myself and about silence. I no longer feel silent people are … continue reading

 

Being normal

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it is a slate grey day such as I might have drawn in black ink on the thick watercolour paper I like best. It has a rough texture over which the points of the thin nibs I use, scratch like little claws.


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this image of myself as a bird flows naturally from the work I am doing, cross hatching a midnight horizon. For as I ink, my thoughts rise above the snarl of trams and cars wound around buildings,  to hover and soar, alive and responsive to the  invisible electric currents of energy that encircle and enliven the world.

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that is the power of doing pen and ink drawings. Not just the power that comes in the act of creation, but the power that  comes with the physical act of this particular creative work.

 

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once  I pass beyond designing a drawing in pencil, much of the inkwork is repetition.  It requires great concentration on the physical level to crosshatch a sky or to draw each pebble on a plain, or each hair riffled by a wind, but the repetition is like a mantra that eventually lets my mind fly free.  I suspect part of the freedom comes from the fact that, in drawing these images,  I am doing something concrete and specific  (ie something I am MEANT to be doing) so rather than reining in that untethered mind and setting it to dutifully work,  I can … continue reading