A Delicious Breeze: On Writing

It is Friday, the 25th of March and the year is 2011.  It is late morning and Maddie and I have returned from a walk, she to her bowl of drinking water and me to a shower followed by wrapping a towel around myself and going to sit in the sun to dry, much like a cormorant might sitting up on the rock off the rocky coast of Maine.

I, however, am not off the coast of Maine, I am on the Treasure Coast of Florida in a small rental unit just minutes across from the sea enjoying the most wonderful easterly sea breeze that has our lace curtains fluttering in the wind.  In the far corner of the room is a small gadget that recycles water and makes a dripping sound.  The motor is nearly silent and it moves the water up the back of the gadget and it comes out dripping off of a finger pressing against a thumb on a hand that is plastered to the the gadget.

There is a green very old and worn chair in the same corner and the curtains flutter over the chair as I enjoy the breeze more completely than I have in a very long while.  The last breeze that felt this good about was the Trade Winds off the coast of Belize in Central America.  I had a small condo there that was owned by the Ku Klux Klan…but that story is for another time. For now I only want you to know that the breeze is more wonderfully wonderful than most breezes; and I crave in the worst way to own this breeze so that I would never, ever have to leave it.  A brief note here, up until this very minute I thought it was called the “Klue” Klux Klan, but my spell check set me straight.

I only add this note because it holds one of the biggest reasons why I have never let myself write.  I never learned how to spell and my embarrassment for that fact is nearly as awful as my getting drunk in front of people who I was wanting to impress.  Oh, Well, I have had worst moments in my life so I ought just go on from here and stop interrupting myself each time I want a diversion.

I am writing this blog from a place where my psyche feels very, very satisfied. I have a difficult time getting to this place from time to time, so while I am here I thought that I would remind myself, and some of you more faithful readers, just how important it is to be able to deliberately return yourself from a low, dark and repressed place (like the cellar) and be able to find your way back to some room with a view and perhaps even, with some luck, a delicious breeze.  The process of excavating, whether you are trained as an anthropologist, a psychoanalyst or a surveyor render the same results…if you dig carefully and you unearth something, you have to be careful to not break it while you are digging. The surveyor wants to avoid the gas line and the anthropologist want to not damage the artifacts and the psychoanalysts does not want to bruise the ego and thereby cause an explosion of defenses.

Finally, I want to tell you that I am reading a book published by Stephen King.  It is a semi-autobiographical book that is called, On Writing and was published around the year 2000, some eleven years ago.  The reason that I am telling you this is that I came across a passage in his book that King must have stolen from my psyche.  It is a thought that I have had for many years and I am certain that he found some way to steal it from me and make use of it before I did.  Besides, I was not the first author to have that thought, Walt Whitman before me did a fine job of exposing it in his famous, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.

FLOOD-TIDE below me! I watch you face to face;

Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me!

On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose;

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.

You see what Whitman, King and I love about writing is the telepathy that it produces.  When I describe the breeze to you, you see a breeze like the breeze that I see and together we see a green chair in the corner, or a gadget that drips water in a fung shui kind of way.  And the masses of people that cross on Brooklyn’s Ferry, still cross on Brooklyn Ferry today and we are them and they are us and writing creates a type of human oneness that allows us to see and feel some of the same experiences although we are some hundreds of years apart or miles from each other in time and space.

I like that.  I like the continuation of a thought that was started in 1900 and passed through the year 2000 and now is emanating from March 25, 2011.  The oneness and the closeness that the written word can provide has always been special to me.  In some instances I enjoyed hand writing cards and letters to my kids, int some cases much more than they enjoyed receiving them–but again that would be another story.   And in other cases I have enjoyed the technical advances that allows me to send an e mail with a thought, and then when you have a chance you can read it and return the message with your thought.  I like that, also.

I have written journals to myself that contained such personal information that when I found them some years later, I immediately burned them after re-reading them.  Phew, that was close, I thought.  But the essence of this blog entry is very simple.  For me writing is sacred and highly evolved in its manner of communicating.  I prefer it at times to telephone conversations, or even at times, to face-to-face communications because I can linger over the words at my pace.  I can take in something that you say to me and I can savor it and recall it and respond to it once I have had the opportunity to digest it.

There are some words and pictures that I could eat right off the page……Like the breeze that is so delicious this morning.

2 thoughts on “A Delicious Breeze: On Writing

  1. Geraldine Torf

    How wonderful that I can be a snowbird in Florida with you and your beautifully detailed reflections. I especially enjoyed your connection through your art and your humanity with Walt Whitman and Steven King. I just read a new play opening by the author of Beaches which is about the Yiddish Theater in Poland a century ago. I wrote one act about my mother and grandmother in a libretto for an opera set in the same locale. It is the wonderful universality of the unconscious which causes similar creative writing expressions to emerge in this way.

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