Monday, April 22, 2013

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty

Peter Max stood next to me completely bathed in excitement when discussing the completion of art. Ignited. His soul. The Rolling Stones blasting in the background of the overcrowded gallery show. We shared the commonality of journey. The experience. Pasting rainbows to a blizzard white canvas. Barely one hundred feet. Sixteen years in depth later. From distant dust particles still connected like family. Near but not next to. Where my conversation with Peter made impact. The subject of my newest book Scrambled Eggs unwrapped a brilliantly free set of wings. This is completely sick to jot out in a Blog. Some Writer's hear voices. Other's serve as a tag-a-long. Mystic. Unexplained. Books by the millions try to paint. The deepest of visions. The value of learning to listen. Even if it's just the wind whispering. The core of my writing self. Sifts through no boxes or dark corners. Rarely if ever. Do I return to what is left my by writing hand daily. On that day. Sixteen years in depth earlier. Peter shouted at the top of his lungs. Inside an overcrowded gallery show, "Let it go. Give it back to the universe to share." A piece of poetry fell from me. The 9th day of November 2012. I couldn't explain it. I tried! I ended up lying to myself and others. I fought to set it aside. To forget it! Once it's out! It's not mine! Leave me alone! Don't call me back to the writing place! Poetry. Hand written it was not. Came to me while listening to an instrumental song. By Saturday. I heard different music. A name. "Tell his story," The voice said to me. "But do so in the most unique way. Make it sound like it's happening today. This moment. Right now. And carry with you tissues of many. Because to get it out of you. The way it's meant to be shared. The writer in you will live out each page. As if someone is living through you." I heard a voice. I've pushed it away. Too many times to count. This writer doesn't write autobiographies and or the history of music! I'm just a Poet. Short sentences. To the point. Make it colorful and filled with expression. Make it peak like Peter Max paints. Then something happened. One of my characters. Reached through the universe. It wasn't supposed to be real! It's not supposed to be happening! A book that lacks reality. Base it on possibility. But do so in the most unique way. Last Friday. One of my characters. One of the people. Real. Very authentic. Not necessarily on my pages. This book I write called Scrambled Eggs. I've written it to sound like it's happening today. This moment. Right now. And with me I've carried tissues of many. Because to get it out of me. The way it's meant to be shared. The writer in me has lived out each page. As if someone is living through me. An idiot it must look like I am. Steps on a staircase by way of round about communication. Their voice. My ears. Their history. Iconic. They've no idea that my fingers have penned a story. They. A main character. A pillar in the narrative foundation. To meet we will. And I'll be stuck. Standing alone. Knowing I did what Peter Max shouted sixteen chapters ago. I've let it go. Given it back to the universe to share. And the universe has returned with its own reasons, "Connect the pages. I'll be back when this part of the journey is complete. With more to do of course!"

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful... This sends chills all over me... Beautifully said..

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