Innerdialects

I’ve thought It would be a mountain-villa, ripe with sky, hands-free, minus gravity + acres of Time! But this happens:

the perfect Den grows for me – between Rock & Hard Place. Ask Anne Frank, Milton, Helen Keller, Mr.Beethoven, Spielberg, The Wright Bros., even Charlie the Chaplin:

I’ve read some great Blogs here and the best of them are mugged together on high seas, meaning, put together in breathless moments.

So, me: (maybe I have a few paintings worked in Joy), but if I built the ‘perfect’ location, maybe it’d fall flat in its nose, if it didn’t host a fire called “Deadline”.

That said, I dream of a hammock between rock cafe & shore. Hey I’ve been there, but each time, this face does hours staring at color, at Light chasing water, at sun crabs and how human toes need bare sand;

this week I caught a few hours of flu’ – and the laziness that follows. Here I am the uncombed sea, drunk with salt. Hehe, the Salt of Its beds. Nice; nice essays on sluggish ripe laziness.

With healing though, comes the leaving of pain, the dulling of throb. Gratitude. Absence of mess. A Void filling:

and in that Filling, is my Delivery Table, my Den. Here, my ears have eyes, and my toes grow arms. Here, in the departure of what intruded, my belly fills with appetite –

the need to hunger : for This Thing that eats gaps between Us & the Invisible Untraceable Springs: Its right here, where we nice people might be too comfortable to catch It;

or be caught in Its currents:

not a safe place my friend. Its the sweet grief of Adventurers and Travel-lusters. It bares witness to martyrs, saints, criminals, warriors, peace fighters and stubborn Prayerers:

This we humans have in common, that we are Searchers. Seekers. Most of us.

We got the Ache, then we got the Cure. We were Bored, then we wrote Books we Read when we search for what the Other wrote when they Wrote. We comb Paintings and consume movies,

in search of What must somehow gift us the gifts of beauty, youth, life, creativity. The day we stop searching we begin to kill our lights and shut our windows. The day we get the Perfect Plan for our Harvest, is maybe when we become a painting on the wall: a relic, a fable. Maybe.

Maybe I’m saying all this cuz I never got a “perfect writer/ art studio”. The thought crosses my head with steel tiptoes loud enough to scare my Muse. My Muse btw, is my Reality sitting square in the Centre of my clock: these are everyday courtesies between Neighborhoods, Children, Spouse, Spice, all these:

my new friend from across our eastern border, she’s 20 and married four ye ars. Older friends and new acquaintances: each with faces I study when they’re not looking. Shaya, Meju, Kian, Heba, each a Volume of Repair:

I’m thinking of my friend Tobia & her “snakes & ladders”. She plays people like board games. Sanballa her acquaintance however is as lethal: she is Pawn. These two I vow I will never be. But what if I’m a piece of a ladder myself, snaking in and out of dampeners to creativity?! What if – am staring at them between the hedges of my Eden, where

…I take quick sticky notes of God, of the Tree of Life, oh Cain, Abel, the serpent, the altar, every Sweet moan and umbilical pang of creative birth, where you and I congregate our selves to..

stare thru the glass darkly at Life, at What is, Is not, What can be, at Faith, Hope, at Love & games of war for peace, at Hate, at Laughter and the sound of festivals we celebrate: in corners where we unfold into an Eternity we extend into:

this dark glass is my Writing Den. (Reading though, is perhaps just another chair, same venue😅, else it don’t turn on any Lights!)