The International Writers Magazine: TImes and Memories- a short
Time Of Year
many skies, so many settings, so many scenes, he thinks, as they
fall and crumble and retreat somewhere back in his head on yet
another bright spring morning, another day in good health years
after those pictures from the past (music from the past there
too) were living, breathing scenes.
even seem like the right word for it (Since when do we ever get the
handle on time?). Years, tears, fears, all washed away, and only certain
pictures remain. Certain images and details. Colors. Smells. A scattering.
Johnny Appleseed, tossing your past to the wind. Pieces of you from
here and there.
scavenges through them, occasionally thrilled by a find. Moved. There
is nothing wrong with feeling something, he thinks. Thats what
spring mornings like this were made for. Another renewal after the cold
stillness of winter. Another coming out, and he doesnt
mind being strengthened by his past the roots beneath the new
shoots, so to speak. The closest thing to wisdom that a man can have.
many books does he carry in him? How many characters or personalities?
How much variety in the conglomeration? He is his own Frankenstein
sewn together over the years, patched with this and that, his lifes
juices coming from different nozzles. He always did open his arms to
inspiration in its many guises, even if he did sometimes get hurt in
his search. He had learned years before not to shun any potential source
of inspiration; a spiritual touch could come anywhere, at anytime. And
then one of his kicks in life his imagination could take
it from there.
much has played in his heads cinema, so many short flicks and
features, a combination of all genres a veritable movie house
for dreams and fantasy, something Hollywood cant and never will
touch, something that celebrity faces and gestures have no part of.
In the end, it is something that sustains. All that a man has. Or does
here he comes back to time again, and what is had and lost, gained and
given up. And the nature of reality. Questions that have and always
will be around.
knows that, personally, in his own quest for freedom, that
he has tried to do away with time altogether at times. To live
for the present moment, and that moment alone. No thought to the past
or future. A man open to his present impressions only, free
from any hindrances from the past, or distressing forecasts for the
future. A man adrift in the moment, unencumbered. An ethereal presence,
almost. For the body remembered things, too.
matter, he wanted to absorb the here and now. Although what
was the here and now if it had nothing to do with time?
is on warm, bright spring mornings such as this that he can laugh at
the seemingly endless questions that stream through his head like the
small brook running by his feet. He is reassured in his good feeling:
by that clear blue sky, and the clear, fast running water, the birds
calling, the breeze in the air; even the distant sound of traffic on
the highway. Life is busy, inside and out.
© M. Blake May 2005
More Fiction by Mike Blake in First
all rights reserved