Searching for Crystals in the Dark

[kristalynn]

Mirror

Picture of an old lady’s
reflection in an oval mirror
(not mine, not yet)
shows up on my facebook feed.

The mirror is smeared with fingerprints.
The lady’s face and white hair peek
from the bottom corner, entering into the frame.

When I told someone about the quiet
of my grandmother who died old in 1994,
he said that women were like that then,
didn’t have much of a say, voices were quiet,
in general, he meant.

This woman’s pasty reflection
startled her, the caption said.

[Dunc]

Andrea

A picture of an old lady opens and closes a memory of N's quiet (=tranquil?) grandmother. I wasn't sure why, in context, the pastiness of her reflection was important, but good subject, nice elements,

Regards / Dunc

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hi Andrea,

I do like "(not mine, not yet)", it made me smile. I see the parallels of the old lady in the photo and the grandmother. I don't know if I quite get the ending. I can't work out if the woman in the photo is surprised by how old she looks (echoes of "not, mine, not yet") or if her surprise is showing that's she's one of these old-fashioned quiet types, and so easily startled.

One down six to go. Here's to the rest of the week.

Matt

[kristalynn]

Thanks, Matt and dunc!

[kristalynn]

At the Bookstore

A golden-haired woman holds
her cell phone at arm’s length and smiles,
“my granddaughter,” she explains.

Another woman, tall and thin, carries
a child straddling her bony hip
as Storytime is announced overhead.

Another stands in the aisle browsing
in that slow space of middle age.
Her hands have fallen to her sides.

[Donner]

Hi, Andrea,

"Mirror" - You've got the start of an interesting comparison, that of a random older woman's reflection on FB and N's reflection about her grandmother. They're not connected, yet certain elements "mirror" each other - the old lady, the grandmother who died old; N relating the details to someone and the caption relating details of the random picture to N - and in how an unrelated image can trigger memories and thoughts about something close to us. I haven't quite figured out how the ending ties everything together, but "startled" seems to be an important link.

"At the Bookstore" - The woman in S1 reminds me of my mother, how she'd talk to anyone in line at a store. Used to make me cringe. Heh. I could glean a lot about the three women's short descriptions - a grandmother whose life is full, sharing her joy with a stranger, a young mother passing on a joy of reading to her toddler, and an empty-nester (assumption from her empty arms) with time to browse for something she wants to read - a luxury earned. I'm not sure if we need to know that the second woman is tall, thin and bony, what it adds, and I'm not sure if N is a clerk at the bookstore observing customers or just someone shopping along with the others, whether that's an important detail to add.

Donner

[JFN]

Andrea, Mirror intrigues me. I'm not sure either yet grasp the fullness of the connections, but they are there. I like the small editorial in parentheses for L3. I'm left thinking that this old lady of the Facebook era is more outspoken than her counterpart of 23 years past. A generational shift perhaps, or the fact that social media gives everyone a louder voice to some extent. Not sure, but enjoyed the delicate tone nonetheless.

Three women at the bookstore, each with a different outlook and purpose for being there. that slow space of middle age is pleasing.

John

[Dunc]

Andrea

An enjoyable peek into the bookshop! Like each of your ladies, and the way you anchor it with S3. (Might I suggest a semi-colon after 1.2 'smiles' instead of the comma?)

Nice work.

Regards / Dunc

[kristalynn]

Donner, John and Dunc, thank you.

[kristalynn]

Sleep Talking

My son has a fever
so I keep him close
during the night
and a few hours in,
he starts talking
about Ponyboy
because he’s just read
The Outsiders.

I yank myself
out of my webby sleep
to listen.
I put my ear near his mouth
so I can hear
those raw
night thoughts
but soon
he resumes that long, low breathing
and I know his dreams
are again
too far away.

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hey Andrea,

In Bookstore we seem to have something like "the three ages of woman": grandmother, young mother, and middle aged woman -- which I find effective. I love "that slow space of middle age". The final line makes me think that the young woman and the grandmother both have things to do (children to engage with)? The middle-aged woman has nothing to do: "her hands have fallen to her sides" -- her hands are free (no longer having a child around) but she's aimless.

Sleep talking I like, but don't quite get. Do I need to have read the book? I want to read "his dreams" at the end as also relating to him talking about Ponyboy and dream maybe meaning something like aspirations/fantasises that are also too far away. Am I a million miles away? I do like "raw/night thoughts" which also makes me think he as a sore throat.

Matt

[kristalynn]

Thanks, Matt, I'm not sure if it's clear that he is talking in his sleep. I love it when he does this. Very entertaining. No, you don't have to have read the book in order to understand it. I'm not sure I will be able to get anything posted over the weekend as this same kid has baseball games all weekend that I will be at.

[Donner]

Hi, Andrea,

I remember those days when my children would run a fever and I'd sleep in their rooms to keep an eye on them through the night. (Nighttime is always the scariest time with a sick child.) I'm not so sure that the character N's son talks about - telling us which book he's been reading gives us a clue to how old he is - is as important as N listening to make sure he isn't hallucinating from the fever, which shows the deep connection between mother and child - more the point, I think.

Donner

[Dunc]

Andrea

Another enjoyable picture - the dream equivalent of eavesdropping. You unfold it well and you bring it to a neat close..

Your 'webby' sleep reminds me of a dreamcatcher, by the way.

Regards / Dunc

[kristalynn]

I want to write about music

but it’s too big.
Should I write instead
about this bug? I’m not sure
if it is an insect or a spider
crawling on me tinier
than one of my freckles.
I don’t even feel its minute feet creep
over the copse of hairs on my arm,
along the craters that are my skin’s pores.
I can only try and follow it
with my eyes, track its progress
upon this terrain of flesh
that is its world.