Writing: closeted with darkness

Lurching. Desperately searching. Fighting for space. Knuckles skinned by the flailing. Already marked by the dark. Why? Gasping in the stale air.

The isolation twisting into a frantic terrifying brainstorm.

That hanging wisp. Then a seductive softness stealthily wrapping around the throat. Coincidence or plot? Predestination? A Frantic clawing aside strange shapes with oddly familiar scents. Reeling. Tottering. Exhaustion. Surrendering collapse.

A quiet tomb. Muffled noises from outside. A Tell-Tale heart, your own, about to explode. Pounding blood vessels pulsating a desperate rhythm through the temples.

A body folding. A queasiness of realization. How long? Cramped calves complain. Crumbling floor here. Palm jolted. That rough clod, did it wiggle? Did it move? Inching backward until, no. Sticky. Icky. Odd thick ooze from there. Strange pungent smell. Wrapping appendages for safety. No more exploring.

A resignation. A calm: a Zen lightening.

The darkness deepens hues: stabbing the steady blackness with nightshades of wine dark, twilight green, and ominous indigo. The eyes not so willing to admit capture, defeat. Desperate light-deprived rods and cones jolt forth shocking bolts of red and tarnished gold. Then. There. See? Fighting for presence, a small sliver of light, without permission, seeps in under  – a door. Edging forward away from the undetermined taffy-ish pool. Fingers extend shaking.

A door? Locked? Blocked? Will the handle rattle? Has it fallen off? Is it one of the darken lumps bruising the body? Curse the dark. The dark. The dark. Why?

A ripping, a tearing, a tumbling into mind-searing bright. Sprawled out on the floor – at someone’s feet. Not too neat.

Silly grin with embarrassment. “Just doing a little research. A little character rehearse. Dialogue to reverse. Move along. Just plotting. It’s nothing. Just setting a scene. It’s not what it seems. It’s OK.” Walk away.

Simply a little visit to a writer’s retreat. Pack short-term memory, shove in the senses, and take the tour someday. It’s a writer’s dream. So accessible. So affordable. So yielding.

The closet.

Descriptive? Reflective? Informational? Commentary? Dialogue? Verse? Even Travel Guide. It’s all inside – along side the monsters swept from under the bed. Rip out ideas stubbornly locked in the head. Venture into the closet. Bring the dark. Might as well. As a writer, you’re already marked.

(Excellent short film titled “Light” by David Parker. Seems appropriate as it reveals light’s presence in nighttime LA. Filmed over a few nights, the finished work is quite poetic and speaks of darkness and light. Bright. Fluid. Creative. Haunting)

Onward through the fog,

Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge.

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