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Old 08-07-2011, 02:50 AM   #1
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She was wearing what looked like a housecoat. She had a (ben-cil) pencil in her hand. One of the colored pencils? Probably not – not then, not yet – but it didn’t matter. She had found her thing, her focus, her métier. And how hungry it made her! How ravenous! She thinks I will have more paper, please. She thinks I am ELIZABETH. 820 “She literally drew herself back into the world,” I said, and my body broke out in gooseflesh from head to toe – for hadn’t I done the same? Hadn’t I done exactly the same, here on Duma Key? I nike air max women had more work to do. I thought it was going to be a long and exhausting evening, but I felt I was on the verge of great discoveries, and what I felt wasn’t fright – not then – but a kind of copper- mouthed excitement. I bent down and picked up Elizabeth’s third drawing. The fourth. The fifth. The sixth. Moving with greater and greater speed. Sometimes I stopped to draw, but mostly I didn’t have to. 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Even from that first line – that incredibly brave first line meant to show where the Gulf met the sky – she had understood that seeing and memory were interchangeable, and had set out to mend herself. women nike air max Perse hadn’t been in it. Not at first. I was sure of that. 823 For the next four hours, I slipped in and out of Libbit’s world. It was a wonderful, frightening place to be. Sometimes I scribbled words – The gift is always hungry, start with what you know – but mostly it was pictures. Pictures were the real language we shared. I understood her family’s quick arc from amazement to acceptance to boredom. It had happened partly because the girl was so prolific, maybe more b nike air max plus ecause she was part of them, she was their little Libbit, and there’s always that feeling that no good can come out of Nazareth, isn’t there? But their boredom only made her hunger stronger. She looked for new ways to wow them, sought new ways of seeing. And found them, God help her. 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The images rose in my mind, clearer and clearer, as if they had been waiting all these years to be liberated, and I wondered briefly if every painting (and every implement used to make them), from those on the walls of caves in central Asia to the Mona Lisa, held such hidden memories of their making and makers, encoded in their strokes like DNA. Swim n kick til I say stop. I added Elizabeth to the picture of Diving Daddy,
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