In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dictionary, Shmictionary.”
Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect).
In those somber days, before I was initiated, before I learned the meaning of those words, I could not see. It was a long journey, in darkness, often close to despair, but you were my constant guide.
Then, one day, the skies cleared, the east wind pushed the clouds away, and I saw the light.
Why did it take me so long? “Often, before you can understand, you need to learn the meaning of its opposite…” Finally I understood the meaning of Love.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All About Me.”
The lens lies on the desk, reflecting the evening light. Since this is the longest day of the year, I have plenty of time still to think of the significance of names: of glass – the lens on this camera, the crystal goblet on the table – and of paper – the paper my pen is scratching, the ultimate battle ground of a writer…
Photography is writing, a play on light and words!
The desk is littered: photographs of the sublime Italian model he worships, another of himself in the Dolomites with two small children – now young adults – a postal card of Paul Klee’s “The Saint of the inner Light”, various requests for donations (well…) and more…
And what about this new work? Stalling, wandering, disrupted and drifting: this cannot continue! But yet, there are so many distractions, take for example that invite to meet xxx in London in June – wow! But work! Writing is a discipline, solitary confinement, self-imposed chastity – what else? O, yes, these pesky characters, both attractive and repellant, they want their way, can’t have it, protest, go on strike…
There is a start, a location, a loose outline, and some collaterals. But not enough to jump. Then those pictures flashing on the screen saver, so many moments of happiness, terror, doubt, pleasure! Writing is of course the best place, for an ageing traveller: revisiting, looking back, rediscovering… In one word: hard work.
Image: Faraway Looks, René Magritte, 1927
Paul Klee: The Saint of inner Light
I found a definition in Wiktionary for quandary, a word which somehow intrigues me. So it goes:
“Etymology: 16th century. Origin unknown; perhaps a dialectal corruption (simulating a word of Latin origin with suffix -ary) of wandreth (“evil, plight, peril, adversity, difficulty”), from Middle English wandreth, from Old Norse vandræði (“difficulty, trouble”), from vandr (“difficult, requiring pains and care”).
quandary (plural quandaries)
Related words include: doubt, indecision, dilemma… All very pertinent to the… learning writer, always in a … quandary!
Inspired by the character of Theo Decker in The Goldfinch
Beyond this place of despair, I saw my mother’s reflection in the mirror, her sweet smile, the deep blue eyes, her beloved mouth, showing me the way…
So I took a small step toward him, as he requested, very slowly, so as not to alarm his mind, troubled by the drug,
And in one smooth motion I threw the knife, deep in his chest, reading the surprise in the thug’s eyes as he fell on the floor, dying…
I could hear the Blade Runner laughing…
The moon appeared, a moody silvery face half masked by grey clouds, just above the trees. The young woman moved slowly through the quiet house: it was still early, perhaps before seven in the old clock time: she knew where to find her love, the writer, who must have been at work for a good two hours when she woke up.
There he was, one beloved hand resting still over the keyboard, the deep eyes reading; she did not want to disrupt his thoughts, soon enough the city sounds would bring him to the present (whenever that was, and hopefully close to her.)
He saw her reflection in the screen: “Good morning to my angel,” he said turning toward her, an unstoppable smile on his lips.
“I envy you so much,” she replied, kissing him with much tenderness, “you can so easily live in two worlds at a time…”
Then I heard your voice, and I walked in your direction. How quiet was the world, how fast my heart was beating. How dead we were.
Traditions: we’ve all got ‘em. They might be family dinners on special occasions, or having a particular kind of cake on your birthday (Jeanne Cake, natch), or popcorn at the movies, or meeting your friend for a 5k run in the park, rain or shine, every Sunday morning. What are your favorite traditions, large and small? What is it about your traditions that keep them going strong for you?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us RITUAL.
Kitchen: fresh water, fill the machine, check the beans!
Ah… the beans… glorious scent – time to grind, grinding, celestial smelll of freshly ground coffee, antique grinder…
Check the filter, equalize the lovely, soft ground beans… Turn on…
Now firing the Mac, curtains drawn back, dawn sunlight filtering through the still naked trees, time to start working… soft keys… sublime aroma from the kitchen: bliss!
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