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"If there's a fork in the road, take it." Nine years old and probably, if not certainly, this was one of the strangest, most peculiar phrases I heard. A fork in the road? And what about a spoon? Dirty napkins? Why not, as the man said…pick it up!<br />
The Fork & The Road
Camron Karsten2007-04-27 22:18:57
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and my new mother. But five months for the traveler is eternity. I couldn't help myself but sink beyond my nasal utterances into the wordless images of the road, that long curving path of travel, of familiarity within the unknown, which I've accustomed my psyche to—indeed distant from that lung, throat, nose and tongue pulse of pronunciations like mignon, exposition, disparaitre…(spare us Cam).
Yes; the pressed lips, the fours hours of French class five days a week, and that licentious road spitting a swirl of dust round my hips where I breathe that cleanse of freedom. Where was I?
As I said, I'm dedicated—dedicated to the softness of the pavement beneath the fork, as to the crisp steel shaping the idiom’s many forms. I'm dedicated to the life of the traveler. Paris' time was up, and I clearly saw my fork.
Fork-Fed
From the start and before the birth of my Parisian immersion, I collected my forks. They were forks of many (many I emphasize), shining with an enrichment of adventure, shaped in spontaneity. Every minute, every moment of my reality, I approached the forks of my dreams and picked them up liberally, making the choices for the experiences I desired in life. My present moment, my future, and my past rolled into one—they were in my hands and they slid upon my tongue.
Thus Paris arrived: the student, the French classes, the homestay with a lone parisienne mère, and the intense independence of the Traveler buried throughout my consciousness. The forks amany, the direction one way or the other. Stay in Paris—the marooned traveler locked in a conceived commitment like a child to a heavy, hot-milked nipple. Or—my mind, body and Soul fancied—or return home for a restbit before the lingering dusty lane of the lone wanderer catches his scent afar once again.
The choices.
That fork.
When a choice is made there is a believed manufacturing of commitment.
...
See photographs from:
United States Gallery
