|Hadnít I once a youth that was lovely, heroic, fabulousósomething to write down on pages of gold?
My life, like the letter O, has no beginning and no end, and everything known in the universe adopts this shape. It is the circle of life for today and every day. We humans contribute to this never ending perfection, as seen from afar, but aha, I hear you say, you see things through rose coloured glasses, the world is far from perfect. And my response is to ask: what imperfections are seen, even from as close by as the moon? Perspective is everything. I choose to see my world through green-coloured glass. I choose to hear the music of my world, the violins sweeping in the wind, the saxophone seahorse, the brass swells, and the percussion's of cloud drifting across creation in the way the Creator envisaged they should, as He designed, painted and sculptured.
Do you ever wonder why the Earth is so green, so blue, so lush; the lushest of all planets? Iíll tell you why, human tears; yes tears being absorbed into the soil and the seas; tears of all human life. No one has proven to me that we are not unique, a creation like no other; able to appreciate what the artist has sculptured, painted, written or designed. So whatever skills we, as individuals, possess we should first understand they do not belong to us, but are merely on loan in the same way our smiles are on loan, our hair, eyelashes, the delicacy of simply being is something on loan to us and to be appreciated.
But wait, this is religious diatribe I hear you mumble. Look, I say, whatever label you wish to give it, look back and examine your own history, to see how it all works. Iím onboard this ship we call home, my sails are raised, and Iím thrust forward on the winds of grace. In my happiness research, using my green-coloured glass perspective, I understand why angels can fly: they simply take themselves lightly. While our children laugh 400 times a day we, as parents, average 15 laughs. So let me ask you, what is it about life we take so seriously?
Those who read me know my father was a fisherman. He, too, loved to write. Therefore, writing is, for me anyway, a reaching out. I want to touch people, have my words lie by their ears when too troubled to sleep. I suppose my ego runs amok when writing. It certainly does so when I write about my father, so much wanting to be like him, or like the father I can imagine he was with all my creative exaggerations. In truth, in fact, his biography would reveal he was more a man, a hundred-point-man, than my pen could ever reveal. When I think about him on an intimate level; who he was, what he thought, how he loved the pen, his thoughts running dry and scratchy across the page, driven by ink from a splitting nib, I recall he was a man constantly in pain, oft days knocked from bow to stern, his food ruined by the perpetual taste of salt in his mouth, but these are the facts of his life, words for the one day biography of a man crippled by a thousand frost bites, a thousand falls down the deep brass troughs only to be sent away by the saxophone seahorse and brought home on violin winds, under percussion skies.
And so it has been, and it will continue to be for me that creative writing is a reaching out, not so much that people will love my father, but might love me. I understand he set me on a course of dead reckoning, a tough course to follow, and doubt me not, for when he was home I simply reveled in the warmth of a remarkable human being. So it has become that I do not trust my writing, for it appears breathless, crudely put down, but if someone out there reads it, then it lives, it is part of a perfect circle. I see my world through a green-coloured glass, from a world below the waves, while the oceans hone and embellish the shores on which we stand when looking at the moon.
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The Writer's Cramp
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