Walking Cross-Town. With a String of Pearls.

~ Live & Learn

pearls

What’s the significance of words strung together like gleaming pearls lassoed around your neck.

…a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

I roll them around my head like a handful of marbles in my right hand, glassy, smooth, and manufactured in absolute perfection.  My Marbles. Mine.

As Firth read Thomas Wolfe’s passage, it was lightning, an electric current, the body shivering from a forced seizure.

I grabbed the remote control to pause the streaming. There was Firth, in the frozen frame, holding the pages of the manuscript, waiting patiently for me to catch my breath, to digest the words.

Yet there’s been no digestion. I float down a slow moving river that loops, bathing in the beauty of the words, the rhythm of the passage and the mystery of their meaning.

…a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

What unfound door?

What forgotten faces?

Notes:

Thomas Wolfe: Who better to talk to than the man who created something immortal. More and more I trouble myself with that. ‘The Legacy.’ Will anyone care about Thomas Wolfe in 100 years? Ten years?

F. Scott Fitzgerald: When I was young I asked myself that question every day. Now, I ask myself, “Can I write one good sentence?”

 

28 thoughts on “Walking Cross-Town. With a String of Pearls.”

  7. Two, maybe three time I felt the same way about a strand of words in your writing David, and other writers as well.
    In writing or other forms of expression I frequently come across what stops me in my tracks.
    Then I decided they either all leave secrets in their art on purpose, or unintentionally a layer of something of different significance to different people.
    Don’t know! But I like the mystery.

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  12. Most times I can digest your posts with the ease of pudding. This creative addition, though, has me thinking and re-reading. More like pasta. Whole wheat, of course. Harder to digest, better for you. Thanks for this gem.

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    1. O waste of lost, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this weary, unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

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