Summer

It was a beautiful night out at the A&W Rootbeer stand. Dad made sure it was safe, and so did mom. Being only eight years old, I didn’t have much to do with that, but I was heavily involved in the rocks. If I could kick around in the rocks for satisfaction, then I might enjoy dinner’s juicy tidbits, as mom helped me discover. She didn’t say it, she simply helped me carefully pull out the hot fries so I wouldn’t burn my fingers. My stomach felt full on the ride home. I sat dazing in the back seat before I went to sleep.

Independence Day and Charlie Chaplin

The reluctant but great dictator played by Charlie Chaplin turns out has quite a bit to say, then and even now.  His protege urges him on, in a whisper, “you must speak.”

Also, Jeff Daniels as Will McAvoy in this introduction to HBO’s Newsroom turns out noteworthy.

In these points to consider this Independence Day, questions of responsibility seem to keep coming up.

Covered in Writing

The writer’s feelings cannot be underestimated. I feel a sense of mystery and intrigue when I write stories. I am somewhere other than at my desk, in a feeling when I write…, like I am walking with boots on in deep snow, and I sense there is something mysterious going on.

In the Dirt

I imagine I feel I might be digging by a lakeshore about to uncover something of value. Uncovering much dirt, I discover and sift through remnants of old garbage, from a decades old picnic or campsite. I push aside buried rotten turkey bones and worn out tooth brushes to find a relic or gold and gems. I visualize my feelings, on the chore of writing and sitting here, sometimes feeling like I am scrambling through brush up a country hillside. When writing I feel tired, covered in this feeling of dirt. I rest for a moment and I feel refreshed free from that cling. Sometimes I feel only bright light and a sense of aha!

I think I tune in to use these feelings to live the writing event, forgetting that I am sitting there, grimacing, moving my eyebrows occasionally, and maybe smiling while facing a wall behind the desk, the whole time. I wonder how what we feel while writing shapes the writing? Feeling seems to have a cooperative effect, agreeable and tagging along as a good ‘ole buddy.

Covered in Writing

The covered words limit the exposure to my conscience.  There was something I meant to say. The words up and down coordinate the mess like some crossword puzzle in disguise. Beneath the chosen words, and the crossed out words lies the corpse.

Covered in Writing

Covered in black paper to hide,
he abruptly sprouted a manic universe
of everyman figures as bouncy as cheerleaders
but as faceless as paper dolls.

The atonal claims of the faceless everyman figures under their paper sun claim, “There’s gold in them thar’ hills.” The ideas float about as protoplasm chunks beneath the surface. If one notion touches my heart, I discover something as from a dream. Maybe the characters of the psyche shout “we love you!” I relax into the never ever. Now I write. The words capture gray shades of a distant setting. I pile words into sentences. Sentences merge into paragraphs following rules that I only vaguely hinted and they so adamantly pushed their pristine formations. Covered in writing, feeling dirty, the story has something pristine, well formed.

Consider Childermass from Jonathan Strange and Dr. Norrell written by Sussane Clarke. He was at one point tattooed with writing all over his body by unearthly creatures. It’s an intriguing read of bestsellers. It’s a long read but one that stays with you if you like the intrigue of magic spelled out in all it’s intricacy with unforgettable characters that seem to live in the room whilst the words are read.

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