in an unrequited love for metaphor, (and missing conversations):
taking a couple of weekdays for an excursion to the westernmost coast of bretagne, I venture to quimper for no particular reason other than it's proximity to pont-aven (and so for a little of the region's art history); and as an expansion to my geographic coverage of this NW portion of the country. yet, despite the nearly three hour journey via the SNCF TGV, I found little contrast to the ambiance or aesthetic of this destination; and so neither did my approach to its exploration truly vary. facing then this external repetition providing backdrops for internal thought, I am of course drawing inclines towards metaphors through the quotation of these recollected events:
placing myself so far from what I'll call home, I set out to climb a small hill in the city, and found myself without desire to stop until it had become a mountain.
from here, I walked weaving paths along the perimeters and only finding my way towards the center some crippling distance later.
I made destinations of three different churches; one being eclectically gaudy, another whose weight and solitude became all too overwhelming, and the last having locked its doors.
I paid for the experience of an art museum rather than sitting down at that casual restaurant (telling myself this can wait until later)...
and then traveled seven miles under the presence of a heavy load until I finally arrived at my purchased bed. in makeshift confines and a room for 12, I sleep in my clothes so I can quickly begin again tomorrow.
though several have asked how this makes for a journey to enjoy, it leaves for me the mere thrill of my being in someplace new... the sights, the sounds, and sensations. in quimper, this is miniature ponies in the middle of a plaza, a blanket full of 2 ladies and the carved rocks they paint, scaffolding as architecture, carousels beside churches, and shadows of large fish swimming in a muddied river. also, I spot an old lady leaning over another in her wheelchair to give a helping hand in lighting her cigarette; and then a young couple putting their equally young child on a motorized horseback ride... frozen in position, they ask her to smile, though she's obviously feeling otherwise; and there are also the old folk of the town, who I assume have lived here as long as many of these lesser known buildings, and they use grand gestures and recognizable french parlance in telling stories bigger than they may be.
it's such that fills the gaps of general memories of a town's travel; and with that, the supposed highlights of museums, architecture, and the paths leading to become outlines in travel guides and spaces to fill. so while again, there's much pleasure in tracing these new compositions, there's also a building assurance that old pages (somewhat fading in their recollections) are ready to be revisited with fresh utensils and just as much joy as they become all the more realized.
a marathon's duration and still all I can think of are the moments just before, in between, and thereafter.
placing myself so far from what I'll call home, I set out to climb a small hill in the city, and found myself without desire to stop until it had become a mountain.
from here, I walked weaving paths along the perimeters and only finding my way towards the center some crippling distance later.
I made destinations of three different churches; one being eclectically gaudy, another whose weight and solitude became all too overwhelming, and the last having locked its doors.
I paid for the experience of an art museum rather than sitting down at that casual restaurant (telling myself this can wait until later)...
and then traveled seven miles under the presence of a heavy load until I finally arrived at my purchased bed. in makeshift confines and a room for 12, I sleep in my clothes so I can quickly begin again tomorrow.
though several have asked how this makes for a journey to enjoy, it leaves for me the mere thrill of my being in someplace new... the sights, the sounds, and sensations. in quimper, this is miniature ponies in the middle of a plaza, a blanket full of 2 ladies and the carved rocks they paint, scaffolding as architecture, carousels beside churches, and shadows of large fish swimming in a muddied river. also, I spot an old lady leaning over another in her wheelchair to give a helping hand in lighting her cigarette; and then a young couple putting their equally young child on a motorized horseback ride... frozen in position, they ask her to smile, though she's obviously feeling otherwise; and there are also the old folk of the town, who I assume have lived here as long as many of these lesser known buildings, and they use grand gestures and recognizable french parlance in telling stories bigger than they may be.
it's such that fills the gaps of general memories of a town's travel; and with that, the supposed highlights of museums, architecture, and the paths leading to become outlines in travel guides and spaces to fill. so while again, there's much pleasure in tracing these new compositions, there's also a building assurance that old pages (somewhat fading in their recollections) are ready to be revisited with fresh utensils and just as much joy as they become all the more realized.
a marathon's duration and still all I can think of are the moments just before, in between, and thereafter.
posted by Kellie Moore at 8:00 AM
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