My Mom is, and has always been, a Playwright. She writes, and thinks, in short, staged paragraphs. There is a structure to her writing – she wants to be heard in the Voice of her choosing, she wants to be understood in the finite words of a developing intent.
My father is, and has always been, a Poet. He binds himself to the lash of form in order to create from within the box of life. Form gives both a direction and strength to his writing, although these days it just kind of flows out of him as if being traced on the memory of a stone.
These voices that drive them are all in their head, they are voices trapped inside them begging to get out -- but who are they talking to, and what are they really saying?
Simply – what’s the point? What has ever been the point?
I’m using my parents to misdirect here, there are big questions in life that have answers that always seem just out of reach. I’ve learned that the head on approach doesn’t work, banging away at things is usually a fool’s errand. I’ve learned to sneak up on things, though, to be honest, sometimes the banging away mindlessly is more fun, and I’m defiantly a fool, and maybe I’m just too scared of getting hurt, because an even big part of me wants to know without getting too involved.
I’ve had the concept of Sorrow on my mind lately – the thought of loss, the feeling of leaving behind something forever. Perhaps I’ve the lost the illusion that there’s time enough for everything, but maybe it’s the getting old thing. I’ve two grandsons now and wonder how much of me they will remember when they get older. I remember pictures of my Grandpa Brady, but really nothing about him but rumors, and a grave site in Tampa Florida. I went to the grave site many times as an adult but got nothing but the knowledge of which side of trees moss grows on. I did stick a penny or two under the corner of his grave marker for any future generation that goes to venerate or wonder, but that’s a real low energy kind of communication – all I was saying with the coins was that I did a thing for reason of my own, which is not much to say at all, or any reason to travel in any other mood but enervated expectation. Maybe if I had left dimes the thought would have held more value.
And besides, losing a thing you never had is not a thing of sorrow anyway.
If you’re lucky, you leave scattered blazes among the rocks to remind the others of where you’ve been. And that’s the place where sorrow is found, and where it’s proper to celebrate the loss.
