Sunday, June 19, 2011

Storms of Thought

“Life does not consist mainly, or even largely, of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thought that is forever flowing through one’s head.” Mark Twain


The cell phone sits like dead weight sinking through ropey tendon and scraped bone to the depths of the woman and the hand that held it. Her heartbeat is a frantic cacophony threatening to burst her ribcage, ripping fibrous tissue and skin until her fear is exploited.

“In the end the decision is yours to make.” They always say that don’t they, she thought, as if she had a choice to begin with. When in reality only one existed.
“What would you recommend if it were your wife in my place?”
“Surgery, this will only get worse over time.”
Faced with the point blank question, her doctor didn’t have any reason for subterfuge.

The phone slides from her hand, bouncing off the surface of the coffee table with a jarring thud. Remember this, she tells herself. When this is all over remember every single detail and ache.

The mirror seldom lies, she thought staring at her reflection. Here and there streaks of gray belayed an age her face thankfully didn’t betray. She captures a few strands and fingers them gently. This she can do something about, making a mental note to buy hair dye and fix the faux passe before surgery. Gray hollow ovals encircle her brown eyes giving them a deeper depth. Sleep wasn’t exactly a friend these days, toying with emotions and stress like a jugglers balls threatening to crash down at any minute.

Her mouth pulls into a half grimace, scrunching up one cheek. Is this how she would write the wait and outcome; with this mock determination to make the most of things, while befriending denial until the inevitable? Is she supposed to keep a brave face and bald face lie in the face of courage?

“You’ll heal.” She tells the twin in the mirror. Remember this. The woman realizes bravado lies to the face of the heart, reality writes things far differently.

Would I have written this part into the story…I’m not so sure.

The laptop slams shut with a disgruntled curse. What else did they want from her? How many forms and pleas for help before they relinquished control back to her? How can they leave her with nothing? Those were her words, her contacts, and followers. She worked hard to build some of those relationships and now in one fell swoop she was cut off. Her stomach gurgled threatening to spew, is this how it felt to be heartsick?

None of this had been her fault. The hacker left her feeling violated and raped of control. The worst, the utmost worst, she was cut off from her words. Words with substance and experience, those utterances of bravado she knew she had at one time and needed more than ever.

“Stupid asses!” The angry tirade poured out of her. The weeks of worry and stress bubbled over to full fledged outrage.

Remember this; the vulnerability and sense of utter helplessness that overcomes you - the loss and anger. Remember it exactly like this; scathing hatred and tears.

Life registers close to the heart. Everything around us is a character study on life. The fount in which we slice a vein and find substance for words, those mirrored life experiences - begin with the writer (the heart) and echo outward.

The above experiences could be anyone. Their reactions might not be shared ones. The question is did you feel anything? Did I manage to put you in the woman’s shoes even for a moment? If I did then I’ve succeeded – if not, I have my work cut out for me. I will say this though; sometimes the outcome is never quite what we expect. - Indigo

Picture From Here

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Voracious Details

“Knowledge of an apparently trivial detail quite often makes it possible to see into the depth of things.” - Dietrich Bonhoeffer


Bleach limbs stick out stark and naked like bones against the thriving summer green foliage of trees beside the desiccated birch. A gaunt and ugly eyesore - the noble sentinel refuses to give up his guard and place among the forest; drying moans of slick bark, stretching sunward and challenging the wind’s torment. Is the lone birch’s bravery lost among the mass of fawning perfection?


A rivulet of perspiration rolls down my neck, pausing in place until the oscillating warm air from the fan sweeps by, before gliding down a tendril of loose hair, and rolling toward t-shirt absorption. Eyes blink with salt tethers of heat haze and drone lazily across the floor to settle on fur puddles lazing traverse floor boards. A breathe escapes with a heavy pull and tug of lungs, as I grasp to breathe slow and steady against the weight of condensation. Summer’s tyranny is heat induced.

Hair windblown from the open window, the cool current carries the scent of deep woods; the kind of deep wood where the sun barely slants between leaden limbs of towering pine and oak. Moist, dark, soil deep scents, shades of sun blockers in a lost sea of branches and ferns. Ominous patches of dark back roads winding ever deeper into the depths of the mountain’s basement. Before falling into shadows gloam the road begins to spiral heavenward, desperate to catch the height of a crow’s flight.

Plowed fields span the girth of heaven, doused in a fermenting storm front. The breathless vista of far mountains bathed in mist hurts the heart. Nature calls with the spirit of earthen drums and the ground thrums beneath my feet. I ache to plant myself between the rows, forever lost in the visage before me. Pockets of splendor touched and untouched by civilization, lost in the knowing.


Life is found in the depths of the details. Whenever we gleam over the details in books, we miss the skin and bones which bring characters and words alive. We miss a chance to step into the author’s mind. Worlds and dreams become reality one small detail at a time through intricate descriptions and places we’ve never been.

More and more I’m left hungry for the details - the visual plethora of imaginations. If it’s not the destination but the journey – what are you looking for in your story or life?
- Indigo

Picture From Here