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She is cautious, predictable, comfortable as an old hat. And I watch her when she does not know that she is seen. How she scratches the small of her back, adjusts her pants. The hem is too long. The edge drags the ground when she stands. She is perfection, imperfect

Posted By Robert Benson On 10.27.2008 @ 8:09 pm

or fight. That is the question, now isn’t it. Let’s consider the options. Weigh the alternatives. Size up the opposition. Flight or fight? Hmmm. Fight or flight? It has to be one or the other. The other or its the one. Or, we can just type until time runs out. Then, its delay.

Posted By Robert Benson On 10.13.2008 @ 12:06 pm

The hill is buries us. there is a silence for a moment when all the air in the world seems to have gone out and then a crash as if they very sky lets go from its hinges and then we are buried, everyone of us, in the bruising tidal wave of earth and grass and stone. A moment preserved.

Posted By Robert Benson On 10.07.2008 @ 1:01 pm

The hill is steep. My God. And so far away from everything. We meet at the top. She is waiting for me there and I am comforted after the long climb by the very sight of her, the comfort of her hands. the familiar tiredness in her eyes.

Posted By Robert Benson On 10.07.2008 @ 12:58 pm

We trudged up the hill, slowly, painfully. It was pulling teeth to get ourselves and our gear up that mean bitch but we did it and when we got to the top we had a look back down below, back from where we came and noticed Tony, face down in the slow. I was the first to notice.

Posted By Robert Benson On 10.07.2008 @ 12:22 pm