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January 08, 2017
Cormac McCarthy has paralyzed my fingers. Thoughts no longer run freely through the filter of reading others and expressing this self in a flurry. His simple, though complex sentences, and tight descriptions have built walls in this mind and locked up expressions.
Where is the key? How is a key even possible?
How can these fingers compete with him and flow onto a page in my own words? It is like reading myself into the story and becoming a character in ‘The Road’. A mere zombie of myself.
Sitting here in blank mind has been a cruel experience. What can this writer write now? It is like the last book ever to be read. Out of this experience a new expression coined in the blank spaces of electronic paper must imprint a shared experience rendering new phrases of creative spirit.
In the silence of this simple cottage one may discern a way out. Or the unfamiliar long walk in a cold frost bitten forest bereft of birds, coyotes, wolves, elk, deer and bear may bring meditation and opened skin pores may receive those natural thoughts of earth waiting for absorption.
A purge of Cormac must be excised. What else is there? A steeped reading of all his books? Breaking bonds of an imaginary prison of this writer’s own device?
Where have all the words gone? Hanging in cobalt blue sky like lighter than air snow flakes? Clinging to hidden branches unable to release their delicate power of description? Hiding as pine needles in plain sight on the ground beneath feet unable to feel their magic power of expression?
Waiting between the notes of Wolfgang’s Symphony # 29 in A Major for the exact moment to spell themselves, and form coherence of thought?
Only a meditative experience can assist in this prison break. Where goest thou? Into the cold of bitterness, in the opened spaces freed of thought of any kind, a visual dynamic of bright color, sharp winds, and silence of thought?
Cormac, how write you in your own solitude? What do you read for inspiration? How come you to the sentences, phrases, and concise structures of paragraphs littered with images a mind’s eyes sees with impunity?
Now a forest walk sought and satisfied, brought some measure of quiet. Though moist mud slipped along the trail without punishment. All was quiet in the forest, while a new fence stood guard on the borderland of White Mountain Apache land. No crossings were attempted.
On the Rim Trail voices melted down the ridge and filtered through tall pines. No longer alone, footfalls slowed and trudged with mud sloughed through the landscape. This writer’s handy walking stick provided a fair measure of balance and steady footprints through the soft land.
Images embedded themselves in a card of memory, almost full. Time tossed itself to the wind and disappeared into high cirrus clouds of no consequence. A warmness embraced this writer as the trail turned to pavement and other voices drifted through ponderosa pine like a lost wind.
No gloves were worn, no hat pushed over ears, and a warm vest zipped to the neck did its proper job. Perhaps this walk broke chained up words. Held for ransom, hoping for relief, any words would fit at this point.
I am grateful for your visit. Thank you.