Would that I had the words to express what is in my mind at most given times. The thoughts alone cry out for representation, but the words can hide their voices from me. I have placed such weight on the shoulders of words, asking them to carry me up and over this terrain of shattered paragraphs. When the weight grows heavy and the thoughts cram close together, the words fail and I stumble along, able only to loose the single syllables upon the ground. Amazed that the thoughts remain clear, I am still at a loss for words. One string of words, a sentence, is all I ask. The single syllables rule my tired being. Like damn, and lost. To put them together to find the thought, they would run into each other…damn lost. The thought retreats as the words do not come and I am left again with nothing to help articulate the jumble of thoughts in my mind.
Then sometimes, the words fall to the page without effort, and all is not lost. The world again rotates and spins. Hemingway walks into Maxim’s at 3 Rue Royale in Paris and orders a round of drinks for all, his hands full of francs. Life is good while the sun touches the smoke smudged windows of the little cafe.
So long as my muse does not again abandon me for the coast…
The compilation of words to bring forth a thought constipated and repressed
Is like the perfect little orgasm of clarity.
Considered moments leading to culmination of expression
That singular release of disconnected pleasure.
Flashes of brilliant light to illuminate darkened sight
The mind clears to rush forth the words like seafoam over exposed feet.
I have tried for several days now to write. I have read like a madman, tried free association. Even bought and ate chocolate…to no avail. I can come up with a sentence or two, but I cannot connect the dots. Where are the day to day hiding places of the muse? Behind the sofa, under the bed, on the patio sitting in the sun? I looked. No luck. Perhaps my muse is sitting on my kitchen counter eating the rest of the chocolate covered almonds.
Until I find the words, I will roam the house like a concerned child; fretting, circling, waiting for the dryer to stop and the blanket returned to outstretched arms.
the sharp edged, brutal silence of living alone, is often softened by the sounds of the live’s of others. the elephants that live above me, who march the length of their flat, as if in search of the next watering hole. the car alarm of the little metro, parked at the edge of the drive, that goes off when someone sneezes. the laugh of the children that live down the hall and make each pass by my door a parade.
i have my own noises too.
a whispered i love you to photographs. a hum in the shower; some tune i remember from my youth. the incessant march of kilowatts from an ice-maker not producing ice. the rolling boil in the kettle, another cup of tea for one.
if i did not live alone, these snippets of life would not be heard. the elephants march unnoticed, the car alarm unheeded, the laughter undiscovered.
even in it’s brutality, the silence is not unwelcome.
a blank canvas is not a work of art.
the white background more stark than any winter landscape. void and empty. absent of detail. clean, crisp, clear. not sullied by muted tones of watercolor dawns. nor etched by charcoaled fingers. no claret red or topaz yellow matisse line drawn.
a blank canvas is not a work of art. it is unadulterated joy.
I had the pleasure of meeting Marie Colvin twice in my life. Once briefly on my way to a writer’s conference in 1995 and then again in Paris in 1996. Her tenacious memory and vibrant sense of humor gave birth to my first story, penned long hand in the fall of 1996. That story, a tale about World War II and a female war correspondent, started me down the path of what I hoped would be a lasting love affair with editors and publishers. Her untimely death in Syria along side French photojournalist Remi Ochlik, saddens me, and I will miss Marie’s easy smile and her generous heart. I will miss reading her words,and seeing the world through her eyes. Most of all, I will miss her deep passion for telling the story that needed telling.
An abandoned lighthouse on the Pacific Northwest coast, and a disenchanted, recently single, Los Angeles architect looking to escape the fast lane. Leaving L.A. behind, he moves to a small coastal fishing village and takes possession of a neglected lighthouse. He begins renovations to the lighthouse, and soon finds the peace and quiet he long desired. All that changes on one bright summer day, when he buys a cup of coffee for a handsome stranger.
The stranger, an artist on vacation from Chicago, has lost his muse. Vacationing on the West coast with his partner, he is drawn to the soft sunlight and wants to stay on, only to discover he is trapped in a relationship with a manipulative partner unwilling to leave the Windy City. A partner who is bent on keeping his man to himself, locked away in their Chicago nest…no matter what the cost.
A late summer storm approaches the coast, and the three men find themselves caught between Light and Shadow.
My first published book Scar Tissue (find it at http://seventhwindow.com/), came out of the pages of a series of novels I have in my working files. The novels are not as yet complete, but the characters of Bob Elkins and Mike Wells began to follow me like the last rail car of a runaway train; following me even in my dreams. I knew I had to give them a book of their own. The result is the novella of how they met and the instant attraction they felt for one another.
It was 1976, the year of the .38 Special, the .45 Magnum, Cold War threats, and Vietnam Vets returning state side looking for jobs. It was also a time when being gay could get you fired from your job, beat up, or killed. This was especially true for Bob Elkins, third year DEA agent, who finds himself deeply attracted to CIA newcomer, Mike Wells. Although Mike returns Bob’s romantic gestures, he goes cold when it comes time to become intimate. Is Mike playing with Bob or is there something more going on? To find out, Bob must put his reputation and job on the line and risk everything. It was 1976, at time when being gay meant you must hide in the closet or risk losing everything.
Now that they have their own book, do you think they will get the hint and leave me to dream of other things? Not bloody likely…
Check out a nice write-up by Jeff Adams at http://www.jeffandwill.com/2012/02/11/scar-tissue-by-gl-roberts/
Until next time,
G.L. Roberts’s books on Goodreads