Emotional Statues

Have you ever tried to paint an emotion for the things you recall from childhood: The television shows, cigarette commercials, cartoon characters, radio shows, and so much more? Those things take you back to days of hopefully happy times and security.

I recall my grandmother getting up to do the necessary little things before starting her daily routine of ironing. She would turn on the radio. I can picture it now… the sculpture that I have carved in my mind. His name was Arthur Godfrey. This was a talk show of sorts, and Mr. Godfrey had many things to say to his listeners along with his ongoing list of interesting visitors. There stood my grandmother just ironing away to these faceless characters.

I was staying with my grandmother while my parents worked. In the evenings, when the stars were lined up and parading about the heavens, she would tread up the hill in back of her house and load her apron down with pieces of coal. It would be so cold in Tennessee; winter winds were harsh. I would walk with her, carrying my one little piece of coal. I was a little girl. I would chatter about everything as we made our way back down the hill. It was dark and somewhat scary to me. She put a few pieces on the grate. I would watch as she would poke at it with what she called a poker. She knew how to break the coal into smaller pieces. As I watched her, I thought she must have been the smartest person I knew because there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do.

She lived high on the side of the hill. At night she would open the curtains, and we would stand looking down across the city with its sparking lights.
I can see those beautiful lights now and hear the crackling in the fireplace. The only light in the room would be that of the warm fire. Oh, to go back to those moments in time…things that I have carved that bring special emotional auras for today.
I continue to carve these emotional statues. After all, I can look at them anytime I desire and only time can remove them from their place.

Words As Feathers

Recently, I watched a portion of a movie that I found to be thought provoking. The movie was dealing with people that spread rumors about others. The woman involved was one of the parishioners; she had made confessions regarding her own problem with gossiping.

The priest told her to go back home, take a feather pillow and a knife up on the roof top of her building. He then told her to slash the pillow with the knife. She did as she was told; feathers went flying every direction as the wind carried them farther than the eye could see. The priest then told her to go back upon the roof top and retrieve every feather. She told him that would be impossible because the feathers were floating in the wind in all directions.

This reminded me of a recent trip to the gravesite to visit with my Daddy. A feather floated past me; it, too, was carried by the wind. I watched it stop a few feet in front of me. Suddenly, I found myself wondering where it originated and where would it end up. I watched it for a long time until it finally flew out of sight. Actually, I left the place where I was sitting and followed it until it flew beyond a point that was designated out of bounds to visitors. I was on the military base.

I thought about the movie and understood perfectly how this walked hand in hand with our lives. We tell someone about another person; it could be something with an interesting twist or something hurtful and malicious. From our mouths these words would fly; likened to the feathers in the wind, we could not retrieve the words.

How sad that we do this. Maybe the next time we stop for a conversation with someone, we should think of the pillow, the feathers, and the seriousness of what we are about to do. The old saying goes like this: If you can’t say something good about someone, say nothing at all. Let’s not send our words flying into countless ears and minds.

Arcane Writings

We write arcanely, for the most part. Notice the careful segregation; truth
divided by fabrication.
Segregationism of one’s true self does not prevent others from fishing
without a license.

Too many times, we forget that homo sapiens enter into our thoughts
by way of the back door; known as our Achilles’ heel. Do you know
where your Achilles’ heel lies?
They, the homo sapiens, walk this tender path and proceed in raping
the mental synthesis of a person’s mind.

The Gulag Archipelago portrays horrendous dealings of what one can do
to another; if so inclined, via the mind.
This, too, depends on the ability to psych oneself out.
We must adapt as a circle; taking care to protect every aspect;
from beginning to end.

Well, how does all of this play a part in writing you ask? We must be careful
when sending out invitations to others, to view our thoughts lest
we are trampled by our own words.
The mind, an amazing work of art, should be cradled at all costs. After all,
that is where we dwell most of the time; is it not?