Pablo’s Reviews > Housekeeping > Status Update
Pablo
is on page 68 of 219
A breeze dulled the surface of the water as the sun descended amid a crying of stranded dogs and of one disoriented rooster…the sound of the night wind in the mountains was like one long inward breath.Downstairs the flood bumped and fumbled like a blind man in a strange house,but outside it hissed and trickled,like the pressure of water against your eardrums and like the sound you hear in the moment before you faint.
— Jun 24, 2014 07:32PM
Like flag
Pablo’s Previous Updates
Pablo
is on page 195 of 219
There is so little to remember of anyone—an anecdote, a conversation at table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness[…]
— Sep 24, 2014 05:57PM
Pablo
is on page 194 of 219
[...] and sat down to supper with Him., all wounded as He was.
— Sep 24, 2014 05:54PM
Pablo
is on page 194 of 219
And when He did die it was sad—such a young man, so full of promise, and His mother wept and His friends could not believe the loss, and the story spread everywhere and the mourning would not be comforted, until He was so sharply lacked and so powerfully remembered that his friends felt Him beside them as they walked along the road, and saw someone cooking fish on the shore and knew it to be Him, and sat down to[...]
— Sep 23, 2014 07:52PM
Pablo
is on page 148 of 219
The sky above Fingerbone was a floral yellow. A few spindled clouds smoldered and glowed a most unfiery pink. And then the sun flung a long shaft over the mountain, and another, like a long-legged insect bracing itself out of its chrysalis, and then it showed above the black crest, bristly and red and improbable.
— Aug 27, 2014 08:42PM
Pablo
is on page 76 of 219
[…] just as the wind in the orchard picks up the leaves from the ground as if there were no other pleasure in the world but brown leaves, as if it would deck, clothe, flesh itself in flourishes of dusty brown apple leaves, and then drops down in a heap at the side of the house and goes on.
— Jun 28, 2014 08:00PM
Pablo
is on page 22 of 219
From this porch we looked down on broad tarpaper roofs, eave to eave, spread like somber tents over hoards of goods crated up, and over tomatoes and turnips and chickens, and over crabs and salmons, and over a dance floor with a jukebox where someone began playing “Sparrow in the Treetop” and “Good Night Irene”.But of all this, we saw only the tented top. Gulls sat in rows on our porch railing and peered for scavenge
— May 30, 2014 09:19AM
