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travelling without camera

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

I did it again. The only person in a Certain Cemetery Where You Can't Take Photos, and I come upon my favourite spot, and there's the crumbly old ruined tombstone made of Queenston sandstone (what were they thinking, was it maybe on purpose) standing over the little clearing that leads down into the valley. The whole seen is richly blanketed in fresh snow, trees laden and no prints anywhere save those of the squirrels. The tombstone in question is a dilapidated magnificent thing, all rust and black and rough against the snow's clean white lines. They've plowed the road at the bottom of the vale, of course, but that only accentuates the scene with the thin ribbon of black coursing along where the creek presumably once flowed.

And where is my camera. At home.