2004-09-19
Gentle dreams of my being lost in a place never-before-seen
Velma became terrified--whitened with fear--after telling her of my online journal. She began stuttering and asking me what on earth I would do if something ever happened. She�s quite skeptical of computers, especially to wholeheartedly endow the machines with the most precious contrivances of the soul--our words. Mostly, she was afraid because she knows how careless I am...and the fact that I create then destroy, then create, then write it down on the back of a paper bag only to lose it; then, I go back and refuse to write by hand because it takes too much effort...despite my years of calligraphy lessons.
And so, amidst the gentle light of the dusky sun, which shone through streaked, glass windows, I stood in the middle of the stationery store and thought about my two-hundred some entries--what if something terrible were to happen? Immediately, I began my search for my first journal...of my latter teenage years, that is. I have never liked the idea of a �diary�...and, it was the lovely Vin who introduced me--no, strongly hinted several times through e-mail--that I get an online diary (she is my more intelligent half). In fact, I have only lost my writings because hitherto, I�ve had the habit of tearing off sheets of paper, scribbling on them, then tossing them somewhere. I suddenly forgot what I was going to say...
Oh yes! I found a journal...at Velma�s insistence. Not just any journal, of course...it possesses a very subtle-looking exterior--thin, brown leather cover, antique-brown pages of soft texture, and a thin, satin bookmark. Now words seem to flow so freely...like never before. I don�t need to think with the white, glare of the computer screen�s artificial light hitting my eyes--this journal is something different. My entries through a computer seem so impersonal, but finally, I have found something I can actually touch--trace my fingertips across the dried ink...these words are mine, sans the teasing glass barrier of a computer screen.
The daydreams are coming back and draping over my thoughts, and catching them like trout caught in fishing net.
Dusk approaches and I hear the bobbing of my silent boat against the waves; there is a creaking sound made somewhere and the canvas-like sails flutter and dance in the sea wind. To me, a boat underneath flaming stars of night, rocking back and forth in continuous motion...this to me represents the strong individual. It represents hope...that one day when wrinkles finally take shape around my eyes, I may fully understand Lorca. I really do want to go and have a Thoreau experience of some sort, whether in Walden Pond or amidst a placid ocean--I need to learn how to find comfort in solitude. Henry once said that solitude was his �natural state�...and I have always believed him to be correct.
And I ask myself whether or not I would be afraid to hear the silent songs of whales at twilight, or whether I would find a strange pathos when the gentle breeze comes and flips through the old pages of Lorca or Thoreau or Whitman. Would I be afraid of life, or anything in store for me? I want my silent Walden Pond--surrounded by nature�s silent looming trees. Trees and rivers know all of my words without my lips having to give them shape. Each winter with the frosty breeze, several sighs escape my heart and in that one breath, I have given them all of my words.
Robert Frost said that he had been one �acquainted with the night...one luminary clock against the sky...�
We�ve all been acquainted with something--whether it�s the night, the consoling seas, or the silent trees, who mourn over our own tragedies.
And what if there were a place where artists could go to find solace and create, as ivanhoe mentioned in his journal once? I would be so grateful if such a place were created. For months at a time, I would pace down wooden-floored hallways late into the night and spend afternoons in a garden or listening to my beloved Chopin. Books piled on top of one another with papers scattered all about. Afterwards, I�ll take my own journey down the Concord and Merrimack Rivers...
I only hope that I may one day lead a life like that of Henry David Thoreau�s...perhaps I�ll find a Whitman with whom I can share my stories...with whom I can fish.