I nodded an assent, then shook my head… paused. “What does that mean?”
She told me. I must still not have understood, because I’ve forgotten. Only the phrase is left. I couldn’t focus, and the image in my mind drifted away.
Like this photo of a dragon-handled brazier at Kong Miao, the Confucius Temple in Beijing. Ever so slightly, focussed too deep. And like a photograph, there is no way, hard as I’ve tried, to bring China fully into focus.
Steinbeck dedicated chapter twelve of Grapes to Route 66, the road of flight for dust bowl refugees seeking the promise of something better in California. The chapter traces Route 66, its terrain, its places, its challenges, the experiences of its desperate travellers, from the Joad family home in Oklahoma all the way to Los Angeles.
First, a tangent.
You’d be wrong.
It’s about a photographer realising the shot he’ll never have another opportunity to shoot could have been so much better.
Like the sun, shrouded
Seeking the balcony
Like the little Buddha
An outline in the shadows
Ya just gotta stop
Take stock
And realise
You’ve hit a wall
I no longer have the energy for hate. It brings me no pleasure, no relief, only tension, pain, anger.
Pix to Words 