April 8, 2009
A lonely photographer, in self imposed exile from her homeland, intent on unearthing the secrets hidden amidst the debris of a house built from local limestone by skilled yet barely literate immigrants when the country was new, abandoned now for three generations, stumbles upon...
the picture showed three canning lids. But I am going to abandon the picture and opt for my own story.
All photographers have a lonely part of them. It's what makes them work. It's being on the outside looking in. You have to be alone to really see something. But back to the story---
stumbles upon . . . initials, cut deep into the stone. The kind that were made by what could have only resulted in bleeding hands. The kind that were carved in desperation to leave their mark on this place, in this world. The chore must have taken a painstakingly long time but I wonder if it was done by firelight, or maybe in the scorching heat. Or in a dark, damp place, whether physical or in the mind. A place that had one solitary vision, so focused. Or was it obsession? Or caused by another obsession that couldn't be sated? Could the stone have been the prison of a mind? The excrutiating carving the only exercise of defiance?
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