Interview at Cre8iveQs
PASTEL SPECKLED EGG (NARRATIVE NOTES)
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Monday, December 19, 2016
VALLEY WIND EVERGREEN THORN SKY PATH CORN STALK SUN AND OTHER……………..
The
wind came down to the valley. It touched the top first. Well, it was not a
touch, but a resounding sound and visit. Akin to the way the ocean can crash on
the shore. I saw that the trees began to shake and the snow laden branches shed
the white, let it to go into the wind. I half-expected the earth to tremble,
but it didn’t and wouldn’t. The things I remember whist standing there the most
were the blue sky mixed with white clouds, plus the green of the tall
evergreens mixed in with that blue, or I suppose in front of it. White and
green and blue. There were other parts of nature besides, such as the little
thorns that lived on the branches if they be called that, and just waited atop
a bit of snow, as if to say that they had been frozen in time, which in a way
they had. Also the old tree trunks that were covered in winter’s charms, -
white, wind, some invisible but felt coldness.
The
summit of the valley held a path and nearabouts the end of it was where I once
saw a deer race past. In fact, if the truth be told, it wasn’t that it raced
past, but that it was there, waiting, watching, and then raced away, - to my
left, to its right. Once it was going through the brush it was like paint being
thrown through the air, or a dream, a vision, and as quick as a thought. A deer
can be as quick as a thought I would swear. Well, we circle around a bit
eventually and come to a path, once again there is a path, - but this one has
deeper snow because less souls have tread upon it. Nearabouts the end of that
particular way, there is an opening, and once you go right, further away from
the forest, the tracks usually stop and you have to make your own way. That is
where we went and we did fine by taking our time, and also through enjoying the
sun that shone down fairly, openly, honestly, and with its prowess, upon all
and everything there.
After
a while some inner clock said it was time to go. The wind, having picked up a
bit here and there, had left again. I thought back to some time before when it
was strong atop the valley wall. I had not seen the farmer in a long while, or
the corn stalks that wait silently in the winter air, their aura something I
had never experienced, their energy something I felt definitively, but could
still not really place. The aura of corn stalks, of feed corn, is a peculiar
one,- but it is handsome somehow, if an aura could be handsome, and seems like
a smart wooden pier just newly built on a clam lake or quite a quiet part of an
ocean inlet. I shall have to think more on that one, and re-visit those stalks
that stand like that, hiding some mystery within such as spirits, stones,
vortexes, such like that.
In
the meantime we begin the walk out, part and parcel of a larger, of an
infinite, of a sometimes difficult but always overall wonderful story.
-------------------------------------
Sunday, December 4, 2016
PRAYER FOR SNOW
So
fast the small and definite snow left. So many visitors we don’t want or need,
numerous loud souls abound and call. How will we skirt them? Yet the snow, the
little poem itself, precarious on branches and kissing the ground, its leaves,
and the rain tumbled rocks, had to go. Maybe it shall come again. I have to
hope. It wants to come, I think, but is coy for some reason. I remember it
before, the first time last year. I was on the summit of a large hillside and
not only did it arrive but the wind chimed in and brought it across swiftly.
Oh, it was some kind of song without words. I shall have to wait and wait. A
calm but almost quietly desperate plea I shall silently make: White and sky,
please see fit to mix and fall upon the region.
--------------------
Thursday, December 1, 2016
RAIN
The
rains had subsided. We walked. Upon entering a few of the really committed and
true dog walkers could be seen. Greetings were made. One was finishing up and
heading out. I had a good feeling about it all. The dogs sniffed and seemed
happy. Fresh air. Movement. Brain and body activity. We went far and far and
far. The rain, having completely stopped, left some remnants of itself on
branches. These drops formed themselves quietly and didn’t fret. I thought, Aren’t you scared that you may fall into the
grasses, the leaves, and disappear forever? They said simply, There is not a worry here, for we didn’t exist
before and soon won’t again.
Continuing on we saw the chaparral, the feral
shrubs, an incredibly high old tree solitary reaching to the sky. We looked at
some wilted flowers, felt the sand under our feet, and knew the pebbles and
stones, the discarded branches, and a bit of wind.
Then
it happened.
Just
as we had entered a secluded and soulful path to make our way back.
The
rain.
It
was patter patter patter against the forest top, and some of it was making its
way down to us. We calmly went on, for what can be done? A little water never
hurt anyone they say. It was its own music, and oddly enough, later, on the
radio, which is rarely turned on, they played a composer and talked, I swear
it, about how that particular piece was trying to find the nuance of water
itself, mostly water in nature, as in what the speaker called the low and high
sounds of a brook and everything in-between.
Well,
a brook we hadn’t discovered or been at. But I had stopped and turned around to
gaze briefly but slowly and meditatively, contemplatively, at the fields. The
sound of rain was there, - and the thing itself also. It coursed down and down
to meet the land. It would keep people and their animals away for the most part,
- until it really passed. And in a week or so it would be not rain but snow for
the drop in temperatures. I thought about that, and how weird rain is in the
beginning of December or the last day of November rather.
Rain.
Soon
it shall be traded for snow.
And
then I will be writing about other colors and shapes, impressions and the
altogether different season.
----------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
AS THE SKY DISAPPEARS
The night was
curling up towards the city like a cloud. I could see the electrical lights
coming on and even a bank, even a store, even a bus could and did begin to
appear as magical. Some old lady sat atop a parapet and drank what looked like
a coffee and there was an old man walking thru a lot with a cane and what
looked like a take-out box of food. She lifted her cup slowly and he moved
slowly also. Maybe they were not taking it easy by choice, but by age, time
having done its own number on them both. Yet,- the frayed sweater or faded cane
were beautiful, soulful, and I wished for a second, for a long second, to be on
an actual old street in an older time with bigger cars and brick houses waiting
as mature trees watched it all on boulevards. In any event, the sky was pink in
the distance and the vehicles, sometimes trucks, would come along up a hill and
appear and then just as quickly disappear down the other way. Where do all the
people go and why does nobody seem to really talk to anyone else? Yet, - the
night is a good and solid friend. It arrives always and has never failed. It’s
not fickle or judgemental. In fact, the night is such a good friend that it is
sometimes taken for granted. And soon the remnants that are left of the day sky,
- well, - it mixes inwards somehow with itself, - in a last minute silent panic,
- and then disappears. Where did it go? Where does the sky, pink and a bit of
purple, in the latest possible stretch of dusk, - disappear to? Does it hide in
a rooftop or the hole of the top of an industrial building abandoned? - With an
old squirrel? With a series of racoons? With some feral felines? - And does the
sky dream? If so, - does it discern the difference between dreams and visions,
- and can in interpret and intuit spirit messages? Oh sky oh sky I wonder
wonder why?- Well, the night was curling up towards the city like a cloud and
the cloud disappeared and we watched it all in the early winter way of the
growing city that housed us and lights and the parapets for the aged or tired
or simply pensive.
-----------------------------
FOREST
It wasn’t
exactly glum there but yes, a bit so. It had not snowed in days, and there was
not rain either. What it was, was that the sky, well, it was covered by clouds
and the clouds, opaque as such things tend to be, were just staying around
forever. It must have been five days long and was continuing. Shouldn’t it snow
by then, by now by some time? How I longed to see the real snow fall, when
there is a darkness in the distance in the middle of the day for the storm that
is approaching, and then it comes and is sprinkled everywhere like a song that
is ubiquitous and continuous. The pictures I could get! - If even for me or a
few other souls, a few sympathetic eyes or ears as it were. The snow as I
remember it sits on every branch and can be undisturbed, well- leaving some of it
there even if the wind comes. There are parts of that place so pristine, so
untouched on a daily basis anyhow. Like a kid waiting for a vacation, I can’t
wait, - because there has been a re-direction, a new configuration, a
re-assembly of the soul- and I can see the magic, the dare I say, and not
lightly, - the divinity in the everyday. Mostly there, mostly there. For now
there were a few
hawks that I saw watching and we took a strange downwards and meandering way that led first to a little bridge with moss and some parts repaired. The water could be heard, but slightly and lowly in volume, - but heard, trickling either down from somewhere or to somewhere again. There, the trees and their branches made strange shapes like they were ghosts caught still in the day, remaining frozen to fool you or me,- the intrusive walker. I half-expected one to come alive, to begin talking, but such things really are only found in fairytales. Yet, - didn’t they say their own thing in their own peculiar way? I am not talking about divination, pendulums, rocks, and the rest, - though those things have their place. Here what is being mentioned is that the trees talk the way the whole earth communicates. And there talk was that they were middle age, quiet, had seen some things, and could see much at night. What is the night like there, by the little bridge and the surrounding area? Everyone has surely gone home, and the thick darkness kisses everything at once. I can see the trees though, even through the thick darkness, in my mind’s eye? Why? Because of the moonlight, - a moonlight that appears briefly during a break in the clouds. The trees are intricate and scattered to begin with, but in that play of light there mystery is pronounced, vivid, and poem-like. In any event, - it is not bad there, not exactly glum like I said, as the snow is waited for and counted on. After a while, we shall probably be sick of it, no? - That is the way of things. But,- first we shall be enthralled and perhaps as we negotiate a hill or descend down a valley path a fox or deer will run just down or up the way, having be stirred by our presence or else just on its way anyhow through the snow laden forest ways.
hawks that I saw watching and we took a strange downwards and meandering way that led first to a little bridge with moss and some parts repaired. The water could be heard, but slightly and lowly in volume, - but heard, trickling either down from somewhere or to somewhere again. There, the trees and their branches made strange shapes like they were ghosts caught still in the day, remaining frozen to fool you or me,- the intrusive walker. I half-expected one to come alive, to begin talking, but such things really are only found in fairytales. Yet, - didn’t they say their own thing in their own peculiar way? I am not talking about divination, pendulums, rocks, and the rest, - though those things have their place. Here what is being mentioned is that the trees talk the way the whole earth communicates. And there talk was that they were middle age, quiet, had seen some things, and could see much at night. What is the night like there, by the little bridge and the surrounding area? Everyone has surely gone home, and the thick darkness kisses everything at once. I can see the trees though, even through the thick darkness, in my mind’s eye? Why? Because of the moonlight, - a moonlight that appears briefly during a break in the clouds. The trees are intricate and scattered to begin with, but in that play of light there mystery is pronounced, vivid, and poem-like. In any event, - it is not bad there, not exactly glum like I said, as the snow is waited for and counted on. After a while, we shall probably be sick of it, no? - That is the way of things. But,- first we shall be enthralled and perhaps as we negotiate a hill or descend down a valley path a fox or deer will run just down or up the way, having be stirred by our presence or else just on its way anyhow through the snow laden forest ways.
-----------------------------------------------------
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)