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Like the corner of your mind..
I live with a tesseract mind, full of doors and windows that never shut and with a wind that blows constantly. I live with multiple sets of memories of things from the past, from the future, from the present. I have swum in streams of futures I'll never have, but am having now, or not quite having at the present time.
"There are times", he said,
I like my life. I've come to realize there are things that my body, not quite a young as it used to be, doesn't really care to do any more. Or, it cares, but then gives up because of there something else it would rather be doing. It's an odd state, sort of like watching a chrysalis fade into dust. It's a curious place, like going to a house you lived in long ago, seeing the tricycle you rode as a child, knowing that you might just never ride it again, and have a bit of nostalgic sense of what was and what you have walked away from. And not feeling guilt, but just the happy sigh of what used to be.
I am a hermit, pure and simple. I have dearly loved friends that come to visit and I have dearly loved friends that don't even know where I live. I have contemplated on this feeling of satisfaction I have, wondering if it's normal to live alone and not mind it at all, and in fact, prefer it.
I've told folks at time that I'm not quite fit for human consumption. I do believe this to be true because of the oddity of my personality tends to prefer simple things and quiet times and less static in the emotional sense.
You gotta admit, when you're happy and living with yourself and nobody else is there around you, there is a lot less static.
The thing I find odd, maybe a bit worrisome, and I don't like to worry, is that I don't get lonely in the sense of needing someone else around. I've been with other folk around me, living with me and experienced a much deeper lonliness than I ever felt when I was by myself. I suspect it's a selfish thing. I also suspect I don't really care if it is.
The people that know me.. really and truely.. probably see me as a slightly goofy eccentric with a taste for tales of adventure, someone that has lived a life just a pace outside of the rest of the world. Of course, this is my viewpoint too, so I'll attibute it to the folks that really and truely know me, because I love them enough to pretend I know what they think of me without ever asking.
I have never liked mundania, that place where I think most folks live. But, as I get older, I suspect that most folks may not want to live in mundania, they are forced to live there and close their eyes to the incredible potential the universe holds for mystery and magic (yes. no "k".. I think the "k" is an affectation for those that like nose rings and the constant wearing of black)
I get cravings for long trips in to the woods with Christopher Robin, and I believe that the second we got to the twenty acre wood, I'd leave him in the dust with his friends. Much as the magic they may have is wonderful, and Pooh may have the secret to the universe locked away in his honeypot, I prefer the Lost Boys and Pan. Their adventures are so much more interesting to me, fraught as they are with near past life experiences.
I live with myself and the mysteries and wonders of my imagination and quite often they are enough. Granted, I seem to have come to an end or a pause, or perhaps just a sluggishness in the storytelling in my life, and that does make me think... how far have I changed? I suspect though, that I've lost sight of my audience, the marvelous folks that I told the stories too.
"Long ago, in a land far, far away, nestled between two mountains and situated in the fork of a river there lived a village of Shopkeepers". That was how the magical stories began, when I would tell them to the wide eyed children that lay there an listened.
I watch my friend Tim, with his stories that I know will be published someday soon. He's a good solid storywriter and a darned good friend. I see his face when he speaks of the next adventure his pen will take and the lights in his eyes drop the year away.
I've heard stories told by my friend Sherry, who should write, but doesn't believe anyone would read her tales. She has wonderous tales to tell, but keeps them all in her own book, which is her right, of course.
Linda, LadyH, could tell stories, and I wish she would. Tales of living in the wilds of Colorado, of living on the coast of Texas, of tales of Mexican banditos and chicanery and mischief. SHE has good tales.
Everyone I know, with few exceptions, has tales to be told, and they do tell them, one word at a time, to the ones that will listen. And of course, there are always those that will shout them even to those that won't listen. And there are those that will whisper them to those that will only believe what they want to believe.
Our lives are our tales, really. Just fantasy turned fact, with all the frills and lace trimmed away so that it will fit with what we have determined to be reality.
I've decided to take my friend Tim up on his challenge to me to write a story or a book this November for the NaNoWriMo. I don't know if I'll finish it, and I'm not quite sure what it will be about. I'm thinking that the StoryTeller may have a tale or two left..
"Through the shutters and the sashes and the eaves and the windows and the doorstops and the air vents the wind found it's way into the library. It blew dust and leaves and sometimes rain and hot air. It blew tiny bugs and sometimes big bugs and occasionally a bird or a butterfly or a moth. It would blow these things around and around through stacks and tables, down corridors of musty books sitting on shelves seven, eight, ten feet tall. It would whistle through the backs of empty chairs that were waiting to be filled again, and it would sigh past the desk where the checkouts would occur. The wind would find it's way in because that's what wind does, you see. But the most important thing that wind would do when it flew around a library like a bat in a cave would be to push words around before it, lifting them to heights that words by themselves would never reach. And sometimes, in moonlight or darkness, when the folks that normally infuse a library with life were all gone, sometimes when the hush of the world was at it's hushiness, and lovers had all faded down to dream, and children had gotten up for their VERY last glass of water.... sometimes (ssshhhh) sometimes it's just... magical"
Yeah.. I don't think the Storyteller has completely left the building.
"There are times", he said,
I like my life. I've come to realize there are things that my body, not quite a young as it used to be, doesn't really care to do any more. Or, it cares, but then gives up because of there something else it would rather be doing. It's an odd state, sort of like watching a chrysalis fade into dust. It's a curious place, like going to a house you lived in long ago, seeing the tricycle you rode as a child, knowing that you might just never ride it again, and have a bit of nostalgic sense of what was and what you have walked away from. And not feeling guilt, but just the happy sigh of what used to be.
I am a hermit, pure and simple. I have dearly loved friends that come to visit and I have dearly loved friends that don't even know where I live. I have contemplated on this feeling of satisfaction I have, wondering if it's normal to live alone and not mind it at all, and in fact, prefer it.
I've told folks at time that I'm not quite fit for human consumption. I do believe this to be true because of the oddity of my personality tends to prefer simple things and quiet times and less static in the emotional sense.
You gotta admit, when you're happy and living with yourself and nobody else is there around you, there is a lot less static.
The thing I find odd, maybe a bit worrisome, and I don't like to worry, is that I don't get lonely in the sense of needing someone else around. I've been with other folk around me, living with me and experienced a much deeper lonliness than I ever felt when I was by myself. I suspect it's a selfish thing. I also suspect I don't really care if it is.
The people that know me.. really and truely.. probably see me as a slightly goofy eccentric with a taste for tales of adventure, someone that has lived a life just a pace outside of the rest of the world. Of course, this is my viewpoint too, so I'll attibute it to the folks that really and truely know me, because I love them enough to pretend I know what they think of me without ever asking.
I have never liked mundania, that place where I think most folks live. But, as I get older, I suspect that most folks may not want to live in mundania, they are forced to live there and close their eyes to the incredible potential the universe holds for mystery and magic (yes. no "k".. I think the "k" is an affectation for those that like nose rings and the constant wearing of black)
I get cravings for long trips in to the woods with Christopher Robin, and I believe that the second we got to the twenty acre wood, I'd leave him in the dust with his friends. Much as the magic they may have is wonderful, and Pooh may have the secret to the universe locked away in his honeypot, I prefer the Lost Boys and Pan. Their adventures are so much more interesting to me, fraught as they are with near past life experiences.
I live with myself and the mysteries and wonders of my imagination and quite often they are enough. Granted, I seem to have come to an end or a pause, or perhaps just a sluggishness in the storytelling in my life, and that does make me think... how far have I changed? I suspect though, that I've lost sight of my audience, the marvelous folks that I told the stories too.
"Long ago, in a land far, far away, nestled between two mountains and situated in the fork of a river there lived a village of Shopkeepers". That was how the magical stories began, when I would tell them to the wide eyed children that lay there an listened.
I watch my friend Tim, with his stories that I know will be published someday soon. He's a good solid storywriter and a darned good friend. I see his face when he speaks of the next adventure his pen will take and the lights in his eyes drop the year away.
I've heard stories told by my friend Sherry, who should write, but doesn't believe anyone would read her tales. She has wonderous tales to tell, but keeps them all in her own book, which is her right, of course.
Linda, LadyH, could tell stories, and I wish she would. Tales of living in the wilds of Colorado, of living on the coast of Texas, of tales of Mexican banditos and chicanery and mischief. SHE has good tales.
Everyone I know, with few exceptions, has tales to be told, and they do tell them, one word at a time, to the ones that will listen. And of course, there are always those that will shout them even to those that won't listen. And there are those that will whisper them to those that will only believe what they want to believe.
Our lives are our tales, really. Just fantasy turned fact, with all the frills and lace trimmed away so that it will fit with what we have determined to be reality.
I've decided to take my friend Tim up on his challenge to me to write a story or a book this November for the NaNoWriMo. I don't know if I'll finish it, and I'm not quite sure what it will be about. I'm thinking that the StoryTeller may have a tale or two left..
"Through the shutters and the sashes and the eaves and the windows and the doorstops and the air vents the wind found it's way into the library. It blew dust and leaves and sometimes rain and hot air. It blew tiny bugs and sometimes big bugs and occasionally a bird or a butterfly or a moth. It would blow these things around and around through stacks and tables, down corridors of musty books sitting on shelves seven, eight, ten feet tall. It would whistle through the backs of empty chairs that were waiting to be filled again, and it would sigh past the desk where the checkouts would occur. The wind would find it's way in because that's what wind does, you see. But the most important thing that wind would do when it flew around a library like a bat in a cave would be to push words around before it, lifting them to heights that words by themselves would never reach. And sometimes, in moonlight or darkness, when the folks that normally infuse a library with life were all gone, sometimes when the hush of the world was at it's hushiness, and lovers had all faded down to dream, and children had gotten up for their VERY last glass of water.... sometimes (ssshhhh) sometimes it's just... magical"
Yeah.. I don't think the Storyteller has completely left the building.