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Thursday, April 08, 2010


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wow. Very powerful. The last line is beautiful.

There was this beautiful (that innertype is what I speak of, natch) portraitlady at the Doo-Nanny week before last, and oh my sweet merciful Lord, you just wrote her story.

She was exactly this gorgeous, but in an intangible way that kept you wanting after her. One of the boys couldn't stop talking about his amazement with her.

You should maybe stop writing my life so often. Damn.

Oh, to be seen.

Love, love, love, love, love this. What a character study. And man, there are some truly gorgeous turns of phrase in here, too.

Well-played, Picket. Well-played indeed.

This was so beautiful. To really see people is a gift, more so than to be seen. It's a hell of a lot more difficult. I had my portrait drawn at a street market in Taiwan when I was 16. I didn't think it looked anything like me. Seeing someone else's interpretation of what I looked like was what stuck with me. I still have it, rolled up in a tube somewhere. Thanks for reminding me.

The only portrait my dad has ever loved of me is one drawn in a Paris market in the late 1980's. It is huge, framed and hung in his office in a position that causes "me" to greet him as he walks in the door and then watch in silence as he works at his desk. It's the only thing in our relationship that is constant. And yet, I cannot remember the face of the man?woman?person who drew that portrait. I wish I could. I would thank him/her for giving my dad and I something. Anything.
Lovely post, Mizz Picket. Thank you.

Thank you for spinning this around in such a way that made it beautiful to see in my mind while reading.

Pick, I love how you always take me down the paths I would otherwise miss.

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