Sunday, July 24, 2016

On Writing... and Summer.

Summer is on fire. Her stalks of tall corn curl their long leaves into wilted, holy spirals, prayer flags of sunlit living tissue. Rains, when they do come, are brutal in their intensity, viscous viscious, pouring tears of mammalian grief atop uncaring flood waters.

The shadows call, forests holding secrets. Tiny springs and hidden caves, glacier-delivered boulders covered in cool, rich, dripping moss and ferns. Alas, hunters large and small know the value of clean water as bait for prey. From omnivorous bears to infinitesimally small ticks, they have only to wait. The meek, the suffering, shall come calling in their own time.

Time, spiraling without a visible ending, cycles upon cycles, births and deaths a vortex of amazing power. The greatest machinations of predators - not merely humans - will be ultra dwarfed by the power of a single, small star going nova. Neither tree frogs or elephants will care, going merely about their solitary businesses of living; life is not fair, as some see it. Yet the balance always swings true.

The call of cool pools where sleek minnows nibble bubbles from the legs of giggling intruders, a sirene song of innocence. The touch of calloused hands on rich soil, cupping gently around the roots placed just so, a little pond water added. An old dog wading patiently near a child with a chocolate-smeared and happy face. These are the songs of hope.

I turn the pages of a book. It is a story I created and wrote for myself, a small escape from the ugly, insistent narrowness of human inter-destructive behavior. Reading aloud so someone else might escape with me for just an hour or perhaps two, I find myself wanting to shed a fond tear when I have to let my characters (children born of my mind instead of my body) go back to invisible silence on the pages where they hold a semblance of life. They're good people, even those who chose wrongly, just as living people do: they teach how not to behave, even as the others provide examples of positivity. I miss them, when they're silent, and wish them well.

What tomorrow may bring is a bittersweet question. Life, perhaps, and what in it? I do not know, and no longer dare, quite, to wonder. One goes on. One provides a positive, hopefully, example, even if it's from the mirror's edge view, where reflections can become eerie and macabre. One feeds the hungry. And if one is fortunate, one finds the correct words to string together. Words on paper or stone, words to live by.

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