Friday, January 28, 2011

the Ink

I’ve always thought of my life as a Story and yes, that is a capital S.  And, this is not just any old short story anthology sold on the bargain shelf at Borders next to the generic Pasta cookbook.  My imagination has, instead, placed each experience in its own chapter of what in the science fiction world can only be described as a space opera; a saga of such grand importance that it spans not only generations of time but also the vastness of space.  Every conversation, business introduction, failed relationship, letter written, so essential to the whole of it, that even a passing glance with a stranger is given weight when retold.  Of course I have considered myself to be the main character of said narrative and from a young age understood that my ability to perform flawlessly in the heroic role required of me was the only thing that kept the around me world from spinning off into oblivion.

 Fast forward to present day and here I sit.  I now am married to the perfect male character, so gentle and true yet beautiful and passionate that my readers can’t help but be enamored.  The retelling of our serendipitous meeting and surprising courtship has their romantic hearts quivering with contentment.   However, the Story has now taken a most unsatisfying turn.  My body has once again been taken over by a myriad of physical issues and I await yet another doctor’s appointment.  Because of the various symptoms, I’ve been stuck in the house for what seems like an eternity and yet in reality has only been a couple of months.  This brilliant adventure has ground to a halt and I find I’m living a Story that even I wouldn’t want to read. 

I find myself struck with the thought that not only is there the distinct possibility that I’m not the Heroine and I may not even be the Sidekick or wise Teacher.  What if I’m only the Bag Lady that is vaguely mentioned in the second chapter as the main character heads off to another crucial encounter?  This shock to my egocentric system has caused fear and anger.  Where is this Author anyway?  I ask.  Even through the critical dramatic moments that have caused my character to grow I have trusted Him, recognizing that it was all for the good of the Story.  Yet this plot gimmick makes no sense, the Story appears to be standing still.  This isn’t one of those tales that skip over years with the change of a paragraph or turn of the page.  And still there are no answers, only the clichéd endings that cannot satisfy such an elaborate epic even if I’m not central to the resolution. 

For the moment I sit, trying to think of a way to tunnel through the paragraphs to the next “good part” and yet it doesn’t appear to be up to me.  If it was in my hands, I would have moved on from this topic to fulfilling Dreams a couple pages if not a chapter ago.  I can only come to the conclusion that the Author’s hands hold the pen and I am only the ink with which He writes.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Living Room

The weak winter sunlight nudges against the blinds, firmly shut so as only to allow faded illuminations. Though slightly dim, the saffron walls infuse the tiny space with cozy warmth that penetrates the January chill that seems to seep through layers of wool, cotton, soft tissue, and bone all the way to the soul. Classic white molding with circular flourishes frame the room and lead the viewer back through time to a softer era. The décor itself is a hodge-podge of eccentricity enchanting and surprising the eye with unexpected delicacies. An oversized dark chocolate colored steamer trunk, complete with shiny metal hinges peaking through a layer of years and rust, stands in for a traditional coffee table.

The top of it holds dusty carved wooden bowls which each cradle a different treasure. In one stands the tiny iron Eiffel Tower, brought back from the City of Lights, now towering over a growing collection of tarnished coins. Another holds a matching ancient iron and copper incense burner topped with a conquistador style hat with a fleur de lis cut out on each side to allow the hazy perfumed smoke to exit. Balanced in the very center of the trunk on the Dominican landscape of a cigar box is the bowl which holds a most cherished possession, a miniature replica of the goddess, Nike. Carved from a single piece of alabaster, the feeling of the wind swirling the yards of her garment and rustling her wings as she prepares to take her victorious flight encompasses you.

Piled high on wooden tables, cream leather benches, even covering some of the mocha painted wooden floor are books of every shape, color, and topic. The black and white checkerboard version of The Real Mother Goose sits on top of The Book of Classic French Pastries while The Complete Works of Voltaire balances precariously on Ireland from the Air and Kate Spade’s kelly colored Style. Stacks of Vogue and Fast Company intermingled with Food Network and Wired spill out of a lopsided dark woven basket and into a haphazard pile beneath its table.

Deep wine and golden threaded pillows the size of couch seat cushions lounge intermittently among the feathery throws and down comforters that grace the arms of the couch. Overlooking this scene is a large painting that foamy green color copper turns when it tarnishes, splashed with fluid streaks of crayon box sienna brown. And on the thick wooden door ornamented with a large brass doorknob, complete with a skeleton key lock, hangs a peacock wreath strewn with shiny plum and cerulean balls accompanied by a sparkling rhinestone peeking out from behind the turquoise eye of one misbehaving feather. Dangling off to one side cheekily is a metallic trinket, daring its reader with a single word upon entering this marvelous room, dream.