29 April, 2012

on some faces, waxworks

 there are some faces that have stories behind them. you've seen them too, when one person's expression jumps out from the usual mire of blurred featureless personae. Snatches at your memory, snags your eyes. why?
  marks of a life lived to the full, supped well with both the joys and the sorrows. laughter shimmering like sunshine on a spring day, and the somber dusk of wintry times, dark corners and etudes to solitude.
   I like to think of what these stories could have been. Faces like these are like the spines of books in a distant shelf, a library where I have no membership. Or chapters on the contents page, but the rest of the book beyond my scrabbling reach.
 So what were those stories again behind the face? Both the sad and the joyous. And those that are neither, but precious too. The arch of a brow, the lilting trace of a wistful glance, cool eyes like limpid pools, the laughter of past echoes - things that have a history to them, like...like burnished vintage ornaments, or silverware with a patina of genuineness, or a much-buffeted old cricket bat that comes from having spent an age together.
And distant again. Moonlight on the snow.
  Looking in like a waif through a window, into the private joys of folks by the hearth. Warming oneself by the fires of others. Wondering in that moment what it would have been like to have joined into that duet, to have known more of that life glimpsed so briefly in a face. The ephemeral fleeting of rambling thoughts.

  Things are ... weird. Waxworks and ghosts of summers past. And I actually wrote about it. Does not bode well, that. This time o'th' year is perilous for the blog.

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