Barbara Froman's Blog, page 5

Common Ground

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The question is not being, if or to, but rather when and what or why and where and how.

If one does this instead of that, results may shift by threads, or swelling clouds of snow. But time, as lord of all, crafts here and now at whim.

And what of this is relevant? What is fluff, and what’s concrete?

A crack, a stone, a thought, a breath, the need to move, progress?

It seems the center’s gone beyond not holding to full collapse. But those corners remaining, can they sustain our weight...

Doors

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Before the hare, before the hole,
before the twisted dream,
there was the door, its frame petite,
its contents undisclosed.

Was she deceived?
Did she believe the world beyond
would match its portal’s size?

Or was it hope
that made her drink,
despite the waistcoat, watch,
and steep descent?
A rabbit’s warning cry?

Too late, I fear, too late.

How soon until we wake?

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Enlightenment

[image error]“Old and Young Woman” Ernst Ludwig Kirchner—1921

She looks upset, doesn’t she, the old woman. While the expression on the young woman’s face suggests…concern? Surprise? Maybe both. Maybe more.

Clearly, something is amiss.

Perhaps the old woman is in pain. There are scissors on the table. Did her hands stiffen and fail when she attempted to use them? Is that why her fingers are curled? Or, was she suddenly stricken in a way that alarmed her young companion? Perhaps she lashed out at an...

Mass Hypnosis

[image error]Albert von Keller – Hypnose bei Schrenck-Notzing

There’s a moment in the film, All About Eve, where Margo Channing, an actress in mid-life with a salty tongue and noble spirit says, “I detest cheap sentiment.” Words to live by. Yet, she becomes prey to the cheapest of sentimental ploys by a young, ambitious, and conniving actress, named, Eve.

Margo is the model for my inner critic, Griselda, mentioned in earlier posts—although Griselda’s cynicism would never allow her to be victimized by...

Globs and Blobs

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Does anyone else’s eye hurt?

I hate talking about my writing. I really hate writing synopses, mostly because I’m lousy at it…but there’s a fog outside that seems to be rising out of mounds of melting snow. Does that seem right?

A few days ago I tried a gluten free chocolate version of a snack cake that was shaped like a Twinkie. There were six in the box. Now there are only two. I won’t buy them again.

But about synopses…. I did finish my latest project, which is too long for some...

Inspiration

[image error]“The House by the Railroad” (Edward Hopper)

I guess because it’s a new year, people are posting all kinds of articles about decluttering. I even posted one today, thinking it would inspire me to clean out.

I’ve never thought of myself as a big saver, but I do have my weaknesses. It’s tough to get rid of items that have sentimental value. Possessions like that develop adhesive powers, akin to what happens to nonstick frying pans when their surface wears out. Then, everything sticks to them.

...

20/20

[image error]Self-propelled car (Leonardo da Vinci)

I can’t see into the future. My vision, even with glasses, is lousy. So, it’s a good bet that what I would like to see happen in the coming year won’t. But, for what it’s worth, here’s my list anyway….

I would like to see an end to the 24-hour news cycle.I would like to see pundits and hosts and correspondents and other news personnel stop qualifying their commentary with “sort of” and “kind of.” Nothing diminishes a statement’s authority more than...

Sparkle

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It’s that time of year—the season of fir and spruce and garland, light and scent and spirits. We plan and shop and bake, hang wreaths on our doors, and drag ornaments and stockings out of storage. And we decorate.

I’m in awe of people whose homes sparkle for the holidays. I always wonder how they know which decorations will glitter and beckon and appear as if they were meant to be where they are. There’s a gift to choosing and arranging I don’t have. Maybe because I didn’t grow up with it,...

Evolution

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There was a crag and a moment…

…but now there is only awareness of damp, worm-bored earth, and soft forms winding around me, clearing paths for my arms, fingers, and legs.

There was a moment and a gasp…

…and then a scent…

…of my mother’s ivory soap, and I regret hating her for being odd.

Under flickering fluorescent lights, near shelves stacked with jars of soil and water and germinating seeds, their roots pressed frantically against glass, and tables cluttered with slides of dried blood, my father tried to expl...

Things Immaterial

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I found a moth on my kitchen window,
climbing up the screen.
It was a large moth, close to an inch, I think—
I didn’t measure,
and it seemed confused
by endless mesh
beneath its legs, its feet—
fragile, if moths have them,
I didn’t check—
and morning’s heat,
the lack of exits,
how it became so impossibly trapped.

At another time,
I might have grabbed a weighty book—
Gray’s Anatomy, perhaps—
and disregarding frantic flaps,
each frenzied dodge,
would have taken aim
in memory of garments lost—
cashmere sweaters, silk shirts—
to their nestling appetites,
hatching broods.
Acrylic doesn’t suit their tastes.

But on this morning,
wit...