photograph

a smile

a kiss

a look

a picture of perfection

happiness

sadness

joy

fear

misery

a moment frozen in time

never to be repeated

never again to be felt

with such intensity

such anticipation

a treasure for a lifetime

emotions

caught in a single

photograph

captured by one

who sees beyond

the moment.

a glimpse

The sweet sounds of music classified by iTunes as “Rap Metal” play in the background as endless rounds of stitches on hats from a bottomless basket of unfinished knitted items, that will eventually make it to the shop, are meticulously straightened. Round after round, the knitting needle picks at the yarn leaving behind a neat little line of v’s.  Perfection is a curse at times. The empty bottle of Chateau d’Arcins’ Haut- Medoc from last night stares back, only a glassful left tonight…only a puddle of reddish-purple liquid remains as a tease.

Surrounded by thousands of yards of yarn, four unique and vastly different coffee mugs holding every size needle imaginable, journals of original designs piled in one corner of the table, the now broken knitting counter lying at “00” waiting for the next project. Fans from the desktop suck in the fibers floating around in the studio. Yarn ends and half-inch yarn pieces from pom pom making litter the Persian rug behind the deep cherry hardwood dining chair borrowed from the formal dining room. Unwashed silk sari ribbons form a large pile in a corner and wait for their bath while freshwater pearls, garnets, amethyst stones, and various glass beads sit in a glass serving bowl amidst silk thread and a needle. Ideas abound, motivation lacking at times, pulled in several directions at once, and staring into the abyss.

Thoughts wander away from the task at hand. Music gets louder. The image appears…an old lady sitting in a wooden rocking chair, knitting needles clacking second after rhythmic second, a basket of cheap acrylic yarn at her feet, a fat tabby cat playfully attacking a ball of yellow yarn as her master sits rocking back and forth in front of the fire. Oh, how that image has changed in only a few short years as young women flock to well-known online shops to gather up the various thick and thin handspun yarns, wooden Surina knitting needles, to sit in front of their computers, to see what’s going on in the virtual world of Facebook, to see how they can berate their competitors. Harsh words are spoken, ties are broken, leaving behind nothing but hate and contempt. Unnecessary waste of time that could better be used to create something of beauty.

The sweet tunes of Linkin Park's various albums continue to inspire and play in the background as determination and ideas proliferate.

into the abyss

reality confused with the virtuality of modern life

reaching out into the abyss

the black hole that consumes all within

questions left unanswered

thoughts left unresolved

loves never realized

demons materialized

voices unheard

laughter forgotten

no soul knows

minutes pass

second by second

the sun sets

the moon rises

the smiles of the day

have been stripped away

reality showing itself

as she looks in the mirror

at the harsh truth

the one no soul knows

one masked by that big bright smile

and eyes full of hope

or what she makes them believe

for fear of trying explain

something to someone

who himself

is masking the truth.

silence in the wake of fear

waiting

for someone

 for something

the past

to repeat itself

only to have the forethought

of knowing what’s to come

and to change

the outcome to something

other than what it is

raindrops now falling harder

pounding fiercely on the pavement below

lights flashing

darkness abounds

sirens getting louder

tears flowing

metal clashing upon metal

memories erased

silence in the wake of fear

nothing will ever be the same.