--- A M Y H O L M A N
I learned to draw perspective from my brother: a dot as tunnel, from which two lines spread out like rays, a road, and yellow passing lines go thin to thick, cars whishing back. John was to be an architect, I, an actress. Precision versus drama? What’s wrong with this picture: waiting for the F train to light and fill this tunnel, unlink us for downtown and Brooklyn, I stop talking to listen. Everything, he’s drawn to scale–staircase, denouement–at an angle where he is familiar, while we, two stories down, are out of earshot, eyecatch, whiff, touch, kiss of any who seek us, love us, draw conclusions. He misses his stop, talking, and we are underwater, riding fast, yet without its truth– currents like ankle bracelets, swallows of ocean. It’s the long fins of the humpback that keep him cool, so he’ll pass without trouble the halves of the earth, before returning home. My brother’s in my borough and we wait for the F to take him back. No one who knows us can see us and we can see we don’t know us. But, I ask myself, what’s wrong with a picture? I draw perspective from my brother and myself, spread out like rays, a road, wishing back and forth.
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2003
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |