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"Well,
the idea is to write down the way you see things." Her hands
accommodate everything they touch, caressing, holding, fingering,
grasping, never idle, seeking some way to express responsivity to
their own peculiarly tactile life.
"The way I see things or what things I see?"
"You're making it too complicated." She pulls up another
chair and sits down around the corner from me at the writing table.
"Well, how would you begin?" Her hands have quieted
down and rest in repose.
"I mustn't get involved. It would be like my moving into your
thoughts," she said.
She already has. Her hands are in my head. Feeling gently, caressing,
creating colors, here and there, crimson, dusk, blue-white-soft yellow,
now a glow fading to all colors in a kind of star, fading to emptiness.
Exciting. A wonderful sensuality attached to the colors, moving through
them like passing flowers in a garden. And then when intensity reaches
a peak, fading, wiping the canvas completely clear, no memory at all,
just ready. A readiness. Daymare |
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Who
will enjoy this collection? A must read for anyone looking
for memorable characters and narrative seemingly driven by its
own energy, like the rush and tumble of a fast moving stream.
|
“…the
western mountain range, hidden from time to time in a driving
snowstorm, bluegold shafts of sunlight breaking through to the
gray winter waters of that extraordinary lake while slabs of
textured sounds were rendered with exquisite precision as the
group flew effortlessly through Bartok’s Fifth String Quartet…” Wintercrossing
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“Every
now and then a piece of sky separated, falling slowly, a burning
lava-like cloud settling somewhere on the city, engulfing whatever
it landed on.” One Summer Day
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Whether
shifting locales from stateside cities to Dublin or Rome or
the West African coast, uprooting time, or simply answering
“what happens next?” - Herb Haslam is at his best
combining a certain storytelling charm with directness and humor.
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“It
was not Miriam’s soft blonde hair or full ripe lips or
guileless blue eyes but the response to feeling low level electrical
jolts emanating from her in the booth where they sat and agreed
on everything.” Sunday
Afternoon
|
| “The
only sounds are the hiss of waves roiling aft along the hull
of this ocean-going sailing craft, the whine of the wind in
the rigging, and, barely discernible, a woman’s voice saying,
‘Caramour’.” Placemarking
Uncharted Time |
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Going
Back For Jeremy |
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Ribbons
of Light |
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Stillife |
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Shadow
Realities |
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