Oct
Good Oceanside morning, oh Literati.
I figured it was only fair that I enter the contest as well, which ends in about a week (still time for you to submit other entries of your own) You Didn’t Write That.
I am hoping that all of us, meaning you (plural) and me/I, have more in common than our pain. I am little self-indulgent today, struggling as I suspect all of us do, with love, life, and literature. But every writer knows, as Bob Dylan wrote “Behind every beautiful thing, there’s been some kind of pain.” Mine passes quickly. I hope your own does too.
Imagine
by Thorn Sully
If I hurry, the sun and the moon will still be sharing the sky. I walk to the beach, but first, I find music on a disc, close the windows and let it play so that when I return, my den will be filled with music though it may have stopped playing. I want to be able to smell it when I return, first thing.
I want the woman to be filled with me, though I have stopped playing. I am filled with the woman, though she has stopped playing. She is everywhere– in the coffee grounds that settle in my cup, in the steam to my brow before the cup was done, in the sand, the railroad tracks, the wail of the passing train. Everywhere. She is everywhere. But where am I? If not in her heart, than I am not.
The burden of disappointing her, I will have to let that fall upon another’s shoulders. If I was not who I am, if she was not who she is, perhaps, we could truly be lovers.
But you didn’t write that to lose her love, or to punish yourself with impossibilities, I tell myself. It is instead, the valedictorian speech for the graduating class of failed love.
I return from the beach, where on the horizon, sails, white and jagged, a regatta of shark’s teeth devour what is left of this morning.
Touch, is everything…
(Click to play)
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Editor’s note (that would still me moi) So I did return from the beach, and the music was still playing. A CD my daughter made for me years ago, with her favorites/ my favorites. I opened the door to John Lennon. And so my entry for You Didn’t Write That has a title. Same CD was followed by Beatles’ Blackbird.
And what a beautiful way to enter the morning. All the feelings told through the lens of such a prolific gifted writer.teacher and mentor.
Feelings only times capture as we all have shared the deep experiences of life and love,lost and longings that always sit in the shadows of our heart. Love truly does connect us! Imagine that.
Like the Leonard Cohen homage to Joan of Arc.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry. I saw the glory in her eye. Myself? I long for love and light. But must it come so cruel, and oh, so bright?
And it clears our eyes and makes us know that the sting of it’s brightness, burns away which only seems to be cruel. For it has always been there.
YOU are the winner Mr,Sully.
dance me to the end of love….
One of my favorite by Cohen. Even tho it is about a tragic event in History. I ignore that! I present my own interpretation. Love goes on, good bad or indifference until the next love..always tiil the end of time. Now I have to dig up some songs. Cohen my love…I’m back.
I do not know who said that but I do know this. There is no end to the dance. There is no end to love. Oh, I should have told you so.
Some of us survive this life, and all it has delivered, walking in a suite of armor. Others lash out violently , protecting exposed vunerable underbellys. Still others avoid themselves by obssession. But then there are the ones who use what is left and are able to see the gifts of the arts with depth and insight as a way to feel forward, a way to grace. It is no surprise, my friend, that you are responsible for yourself in this manner.
As always, you have given me something I will eventually plagiarize under an assumed name. You didn’t write that.
You best hurry T… I might beat ya to it!
Miryam! Behave yourself! Te hehehehe!
Ohhh, you kid, you.
I knew it from the moment I met you that you were a man of vision, magic and imagination, throw in a bit of logical, pain, suffering and human-ness along with a soupcon of childlike wonder, the persnickity of an old man, a lover of ephemeral love and the lessons learned from it, the wisdom in fleeting moments of the Buddha, a dash of wicked laughter, bound together with compassion for all that we the humans are, with pen in hand you paint the words to bring us into understanding the heart more. And you thought you were be inconspicuous…!!!! Glad you joined in with the rest of us crabs running around on the beach – doing the crab dance of word imaging. Good one Sir Sully. Imagination intact.
Thanks Diana
Do I spoil it all, if, as the judge of this contest, I award it to myself? If I do, it means I could offer A MILLION dollars as a prize! I could use the money. Again, thanks
possibly…but then…would the money be worth it when you lose something else? You have already a million dollars.
This leaves me positively unsettled – wanting to know more – about her, and him, and why their relationship is able to inspire the “valedictorian speech for the graduating class of failed love.” WHY CAN’T THEY BE TOGETHER? My interest is piqued! Perfectly satisfyingly unsatisfying. Sort of like it would be if you won your own contest…:)
Because I have everything that she needs, but nothing that she wants.
You have the soul of a poet, Thorn.
You’ve made me homesick for Oceanside where I lived from 1998 until 2005.
you can always come home (screw who said you can never go home)
I was googling for a word to say what “imagine” made me feel. I found saudade though I was not familiar with it before, it does seem to fit.
“Saudade was once described as “the love that remains” after someone is gone. Saudade is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It can be described as an emptiness, like someone (e.g., one’s children, parents, sibling, grandparents, friends, pets) or something (e.g., places, things one used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence.”
Memories are things to warm us after time has drained the hurt. Hope the warmth comes soon.
I love your description of containing the music… Like love, — we desire to protect it closely, closing the windows to the world! T, — you really have given back to the this world with your words. Thanks for entering your contest. Standing ovation.
Oh great, Thorn, now I have to figure out how to top this LOL
“It is instead, the valedictorian speech for the graduating class of failed love.”
That, right there, is literary art in high form =)
If anyone else made mention of ‘smelling the music’ I would probably dismiss them and any words of theirs that followed.
But you, Thornton, you weave it into your writing in such a way I not only understand and accept what you offer but I hold out my bowl and ask, “May I have some more, sir?”
You truly are an Iron Wordsmith. You mix the particular with the poetic, your descriptives are pulled from every direction, but rather than a conglomerated mess you offer us delectable literary cuisine.
Wow! Thanks make. You just won our contest. Did you enter?
It’s the drugs. It should have been Thanks MAC
I suspected a typo, but I thought you were pretending to be British (“Bri’ish” as Mari and Sam say when they are trying to imitate the accent) and meant to type “mate.” But I suppose that’s actually more Australian.
Anyway, since I won, what’s the kuhl prize this time?
workin on it, mate
Oh Thorn. This is so beautiful. It is such a poignant reflection of love lost and the reality of the soul’s longing for the loss of what once lifted it so high. This brought a lump to my throat. Stunning vignette:).