The International Writers Magazine: A Distraction
The Lone Writer
There is an art form to the genre of the 'article' that is far removed from the beauty of yesteryear. Folk back then relished the opportunity to share daily, events that were viewed and perceived through naked eyes, about a world that was still unfolding with all her grandeur/possibilities. Not just the 'ills' of humanity were looked at but also those lovely things that oppressed the bad and well nigh, in some instances, crushed them; sent them into to oblivion!
|writer: a person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc., to writing: an expert letter writer.
Their lens was then little polluted. It permitted for both the objective/subjective vision that comes into alignment with the way things really are.
Those were 'rich' times, better for the written 'snap' shot with endless opportunities for experiences and images in an era when cameras did not exist. A writing instrument, something to scribble on, a satchel, and boundless direction was all that was needed. Oh yes, a pulse for 'Life' that never faded but replenished and grew stronger with each passing moment; this was inspiration enough.
As a man/woman standing on a great ledge looks to the north, south, east, and west with undimmed eye, discovers the panorama/ confluences of nature and the societies that were birthed and settled on her mountainous regions and lively plains, he/she each- leapt into the various canyons with instrument in hand scribbling all the while at a ferocious pace 'the images seen/ the voices heard', before dashing the ground to a most rewarding death.
This is my discovery and pleasure in midlife. Removing the distractions and pollutants from my own heart allows me to live in 'yesteryear' but write for the present and I'm grateful for the 'leap'!....
The following are my senses and emotions jolted and captured with my pen as I see, hear, and taste.
Just a note: The winds are-ah changing. America is just now awakening to the reality of 'shift'. We're blind by choice or perhaps conditioning, nevertheless, those mighty gust have changed coarse and are bearing nowhere! This is our misfortune, no more lusters for a loss! Our dream is gone and we are forced to join the worlds stage. Damn fools that we are, we're hell bent on preserving what is already gone. All that to say that 'convenience' is purely democratic and certainly not consistent with a republic. We have forgotten our origins and have cast off the old ways. Emotionalism is in the prevailing mist and fine minds are hard to come by these days! ...They really are.....
Afore night a boy of no more than eight captured my attention and stole my entertainment/ beguiled me away from the screen. with youthful jaunt, vaunted cheer, laughter ablaze, a voracious chew, a piercing gaze, small fingers clasped against the back of my hand, a sudden vulgar commentary, a dancing right foot, an electric tickle, full lips surrendered to grand upturned corners, a request for a dollar, an offer of refreshments, and a sudden deep need to know my thoughts at entertainments end......In this I didn't lie. I told him I was revived!...
In recognition "of" I can't help but see my father for who he is. Always when I am lonely. He's a velour shadowing that permits my prevalent unpleasant Isolationism. In my times of emotional exploration, He, in a spousal way, prepares meals to oblige, nourish and comfort. At times I can see the accordion like neck attached to a gas container spilling fuel into my cars depleted tank. Dads hands are supporting it. Periodically a text will buzz and the familiar ring reminds me to "Pray"....Our taste are congenial and In this vein I am surely my fathers son. He treats life ascetically therefor his burdens are lite; This suits me fine. His opinions are not always informed but when voiced and at their end he always turns the corners of his mouth upwards. I don't always listen but always I look for his smile...Shortly from now Dad and I will sit and read aloud. Each will open the same book; he his own. Each requires reading glasses...I'm glad!...He props his legs as do I. Our reading styles are strictly comparable!....Yes, and again Yes... in recognition "of" I can't help but see my father for who he is..
Speaking is almost a devilish thing!.. I wonder if the fallen world and her minions hedge close in, breath heavily, touch then kiss the lips of the unsuspecting, inveigle their senses, then with the appearance of the sound coming from the vocal organs of the speaker produce a voice heavy in pride, with a stout commanding tone, incurious of the consequences, and most certainly self beguiling!...I wonder, I really wonder!!...Because once the lips part the torrent follows and it's impossible to lower the sails!....
I am Ah-feared!
There is a certain Asian man who's a member and frequent user of the gym. I've noticed that each visit seems to be a labor in "gumption"!...Before entering he debates at the front doors whether to come in or not. He stands about 5'4", both head and body are cylindrical, plump, he's not sure what to wear, by appearance he may be forty to fifty pounds overweight, always-he moves slowly and deliberately, he clearly does not want be noticed, his swarthy eyes sullenly express fear and defeat, he is not at risk to put on "airs", he slips between machines and racks of weights, dodges people with an embarrassed apologetic look on his face, he flounders, desperately wanting to use, try, touch any of the apparatus that he pays to use, but always he makes his way upstairs to the mezzanine to a group of treadmills that are sheered, tucked away out of the public eye....
Perhaps an animal knows instinctively that it is mangy and learns to live with its own stink and discomfort... My Dad set Scamp in a chair opposite his own and washed his nastiness off, used moms hair scissors to cut back frosty mangled hair, and carefully trimmed and shaped his twisted mane. This effort appeared to beckon a smile from that rat like looking mutt...Under the careful hand of my ageing father this pure bread animal has regressed into mutt-dom!...moms scissors, if she knew, have not helped, and would dredge up wrath from her weak heart. Convalescence doesn't seem to agree with Scamp. His present and future existence may be set!
The sight of my father, comfortably adjusted, seated under the dim of a terribly weathered, and dank canopy, reading a book other than the bible is both queer and beyond my recollection...But what is pleasurably alarming is the apparent upward curve of the corners of his mouth....this new delight evidently agrees with him....he's smiling! However, from my vantage point, standing just above this awkward scene I can see and sense a shared affinity between the two that must be left alone....
The empresses of QVC reign over a vast host of addicts which spans the entire globe!...."Idols" Securest is but a diminutive glorified hall monitor and Daly has seen the error of his ways ditching "last call" to join his contemporary in the hope and expectation of genuine acclaim with a fatter pay check!....And I....Well I wish I were all three....Damn!
The private things of life
what you do when eyes are averted, curtains are drawn shut, the expected are delayed, wife and kids vacate for leisurely merriments, when doors are latched, your eyes are held captive, 'priority' beckons, and 'the' perverse emerges.....Tantamount to accountability is transparency which tends toward freedom!....As 'Umm' would say "Sure thing"; what you do in private is who you really are!
I'm sure that I've never clearly seen nor understood how the sounds, sights, and smells of nature can disturb and intrude on ones personal space as I have curiously observed this day....How a father and son are joyously entertained by a spirited duck making merry in a shallow stream and how the boy runs the length of the water only to be chased back to his father by a second frolicking duck and all along, at no less than a fields length, I can hear the giggles and laughter borne on the wind...But almost, in statuesque form, hunched over with legs crossed, a woman, no less the wife and mother, sits on a cold square bench and she adorned in perfectly fashionable sports-wear, stares enraptured at a miniature screen refusing to let vexatious nature and the pleasurable serenades of family-interrupt her diverted attention!...Her back is turned from those whom I rightly assume are her husband and son....
"Categories" are themselves categorically wrong....Perhaps not...I just wish it to be so. An immured confinement is distasteful to me...Jewels would think me countercultural on purpose...Like a string of Christmas lights strapped and suspended from gutters and I being the one lone red light would find a way to kill all the others!...She is much more adept at word wizardry...She is correct in saying;..."You would find a way to kill all the others"... but in this she is incorrect...It would not be deliberate-just blind well meaning stupidity!....
Today I met Chris. He's a modern day visionary, a fine man, a spiritual actuary who recently moved from the east to a little less east in order to start a new project founded on, undergirded by,and belonging exclusively to LOVE.... You know...something "new under the Sun"...
I can see in my mothers rest the deep wave like breaths she takes; each rising gradually and then rolling across her chest in rhythmic silence....I wonder to myself- what surge of emotion is in each of those swells that eventually die away?....
I Adore the privilege and right that our constitution affords me for written expression and permissive thought. I fear it will not be such for very much longer. I am Roy Valenzuela and I am a Writer!....
Roy Valenzuela August 2013