Sea See Rider

I am talking to myself cause you probably won’t hear or like what I have to say. Print is talk heard with the eyes. Words tattoo with permanent ink. Writers speak long after they shut up. My writer has been quiet. Words felt yet mere embryos of any importance. Zygotes all hoping to make it full term. Can’t force those little fuckers out too soon. Words must walk out on the own. Parade them on demand and they die in the fakery. Should have been aborted zombies painful on the eyes. So waiting was the way. Other things were the way. Feeling.

There is a newness to this place of life. Each thought to make things happen is bound, beaten to submission, and caged until it remembers that it is me pretending to be God, Goddess, and Big Kahuna. The Muses run a tight slave ship. I learn the flow of truth lash by lash. We are to let things happen. We are to trust. So I honor this newness and move in ways that are more and more mine with less and less struggle. As the song said, Let It Be.

The writer feels the words moving to the light now. The cauldron of creativity bubbles. It will ooze forth gently or explode on its own accord. When it is ready. I am merely the vessel. Still, old habits pop up like pimples now and then for this adolescent senior prodigy. A week ago I wrote something because I could. A writing exercise. An academic foray to prove something to myself. Right out of Creative Writing 101. A writing about something you see everyday. My muscles ached for movement and I obeyed their call to arms.

Green Rug

Just one of too many made by forgotten hands in places far away. A second of a moment on a assembly line day unmarked by the maker or the made. Strangers as several other things and then it was what it became, destined for a way station on its way to wherever it would end up being.

A too quick birthing followed by a too fast movement, it barely knew what it was and then it was clueless about where it was. Moment drowned by moments. From here into there and then on to the bells and whistles of needs and wants. Existing in a whirlwind of motion to the unknown then cast adrift in continuous darkness. There was only time to feel. Learning would come later, if at all.

Then light. Lined and presented and shown. A place of exchange. Some form of graduation. Acceptance. Something. This was close to what was supposed to be. Instincts guided. A gateway? A portal? Something. It was quietly exciting in this warm place of lights and the company of others.

Selection. A movement alone. Different than all the other movements. The other movements crushed with similarities in pressing darkness. This was a jumble. Such variety. So much diversity. A cornucopia of amazing newness. Space between bottoms and tops and along side. Shorter motions. Jerkier movements. Then the burst of air. Freedom washed over me and all was well.

Stretched and placed. Alone. In perfect design of what was meant to be. Wet and dry and wet again. Pressed upon and then cleaned. Valued. Part of something. Moved. Moved?

Why this move? Why this different place? Warmer. Drier. So very different. Time to adjust. This is not the plan. This is unusual. This is special. Yes, that’s it. Special. The others like me, all those kindred spirits from that same place so long ago, are likely where I was. Now I am in a place unlike any of them. Along side things. In a place more frequented. Yes, that’s it. There is more life here and I am part of it.

Life would have been good at that place of design. Life is sweeter and richer in this unusual turn where things become more than they were meant to be. Things like me. I was created. Now I am of creativity. Out of the box to an out of the box place for an out of the box usage. I am special. Unique. At least for my kind. Is there any other kind of unique? To be more than you were meant to be. I like it. It suits me. It thrills me. I am more and being more is just right. I would have been content. Now I am joyous. Much, much better.

Sometimes we do things to remind ourselves we still can. Big freaking deal. I like the little ditty about the Green Rug. In the big scheme of things, it just doesn’t matter though. It was me checking my pulse. It was worse that talking to myself. It was writing to myself. It was writing for myself. My writing isn’t for me. It is for others long after I am dust to the children of the children of the sparkles in my eye. This piece is for me. The real peace is what is pushed though me for others. I am a writer. These are just words. Messages in a bottle on the sea of see me if you can. Surf’s up and the words will crash to the sure and wash some sins away. Beginning with my own.