All origins from the sea.
All future on the earth.
All eternity in the universe.
All mystery through the cosmos.
All shame in the marrow.
All lamentation with the soul.
All weeping by the grievers.
All salt from the sea.
Just a thought 46
Ocean image courtesy Pixabay
There’s nothing much to water. No fat, no carbs, no salt, no sugar, little taste. Frozen, vapor, or liquid, there’s not much to it.
Yet water is the single most essential element for life. It comprises most of our bodies and much of the world. Trekking across the desert, we ration our water assertively. In our exploration of the cosmos, we ardently seek water. Farmers carve into earth to plant seeds only once water has been located. From divining rods to space ships to artesian wells, mankind has always yearned for water.
When our body is parched, it’s water we crave to restore it.
When our thirst is deep, it’s water we demand to slake it.
When our skin is grimy, it’s water we require to clean it.
When our souls ascend, it’s water we choose to honor the journey.
Water is everything.
So tell me – what’s the water of your story?
Just a thought 45
Waterfall image courtesy of Pixaby
Droog sprints around the campfire before the six members of the gang he hangs out with. He whistles and puffs, pounds his chest and leans over the crowd. He flashes a toothy grimace, gestures wildly. He can’t count how many folks are there but he knows by their faces and smells if one is missing. Droog is the very first human being, a creature different from the monkey hanging by his tail in the tree overhead. He isn’t threatening his gang in a power play or forcing anyone to submit to his demands. Well, not now, anyway.
Droog, you see, is telling a story. The gang he hangs with is mesmerized because they can’t wait to learn what happens next.
The monkey is used to Droog. He’s seen him before and senses when it’s time to high tail it out of there – before Droog grabs him by that long tail and slings him over the fire, making crispy monkey tenders out of him. Monkey acts from instinct and experience. Self preservation is a big deal to him. If monkey is female, she’ll protect her baby with everything she’s got. Hanging overhead of Droog and his gang is fine as long as the ground hoppers leave monkey and her crew alone.
When the big water rushes toward them, they all run – monkey and human. When the big mountain spits fire, they all run. When the giant animal with dagger teeth leaps at them, they all run. Monkey and human run from threats when instinct and experience declare their lives are imperiled. Fire mountain, flooding water, and bounding predator all plan to end their lives.
Monkey and human run and run and run. They climb and hide and cower and watch to make sure they’re safe. When the all clear bells sounds, they go back to doing what they like. Eating and mating and hanging around with each other in a safe place, pulling off ticks and fleas. Monkey and Droog are much the same in these ways. Food, sex, safety. Except this is where it ends with monkey.
Droog stepped over the threshold of humanness, one level further along the evolutionary tree. Maybe we should call it a bramble bush, given how erratically that tree spread its experimental developments. Mab, Hund, Wurf, and all the rest of the human gang do one thing that monkey never does. They tell stories.
Mab scrapes ocher from the river bank and smears it onto rocks, making images that tell stories.
Hund pounds on a dried gourd in a rhythm that quickens and ebbs, making sounds that tell stories.
Wurf hauls a stone out of the earth and carves shapes into it, making forms that tell stories.
After years of watching the very youngest children play, I noticed that all kids tell stories. Putting rocks and leaves in patterns, jabbering to plastic blocks and stuffed animals, toddling outside to hug a roly poly, they tell stories the whole time. The narrative, even if gibberish, infuses their activities with meaning. They tell stories even before they can talk or have the ability to understand the craft of storytelling, Yes, parents read to them, but even the littlest ones are compelled to tell their own stories.
Telling stories is one of the big differences between humans and the rest of the animal kingdom. Droog excels at retelling the run from danger. Bellies fed, sexual desire sated, and safety guaranteed for the next few minutes (even though they can’t count and have no concept of time,) the gang raptly listens and watches while Droog scrabbles, tumbles, waves his arms, wiggles his rear, spits and grunts to tell the story of the fire, the flood, the capture they all just evaded.
Monkey strips bark from the tree and chews. He’s aware of the manic nonsense Droog pulls every once in a while – he’s seen it before but can’t make anything out of all that wild gesticulation except to know that he’s safe in his tree, tail looped around a branch, eating bark. Monkey can’t figure out why Droog is cavorting in the firelight, and he can’t improvise a routine either. Monkey not only can’t tell stories – he can’t perceive when they’re being told.
The gift of free time allows monkey the luxury of hanging around the branches fluffing his neighbor’s fur. That same wealth of time grants Droog his moment of theater. The story of the chase, of the hunt, of birth and death, of visions, of the promise that it will all happen again tomorrow because it happened yesterday, and they all lived to tell about it today.
So here I am, a few evolutionary levels advanced from Droog, a few years older than the kids I observe, telling stories. One day my stories will be available in print and you’ll see they aren’t much different from Droog’s or the toddler’s. My characters run from fire, flood, and monsters with big teeth.
Sharon tells a story.
Prehistoric cave art image courtesy Pixabay
Speak even when you are speechless.
Bellow when you are crying.
Whisper when you are lost.
Open your palms when words fail.
Pray when you are harrowed.
If nothing grows, plant weeds.
Reach out when there’s nothing left to do.
Hold others tight during a quake.
Take the hands of those who stand apart.
Give when your account is empty.
Share everything when nothing remains.
If fish die, water the oceans.
Imagine while you dream.
Rock while the baby sleeps.
Cradle when the aged weep.
Plan the future on the last page of the calendar.
Climb atop the barricades.
If you waver, stand on quicksand.
Awaken on the cusp of the new day.
Cross over as the piers collapse.
March on two broken feet.
Dance on your knees and elbows.
Crawl on the flesh around your ribs.
If you wear rags, scour the mud.
Avoid flight when evil approaches.
Listen to those who will not hear.
Sign for those who are made silent.
Thump your chest when your breath catches.
Pierce your heart when you shiver.
If the bees depart, bring honey.
Translate pain into self portraits.
Wail when words are not enough.
Write when words are all you have.
Etch in blood when your pencil breaks.
There’s always something you can do.
If not for you, for someone else.
Just a thought 44
Painting: Mother and Child, 1914, by Julius Paulsen
An old barn is a bane to a farmer but a boon to an artist
A dilapidated shack an eyesore for neighbors but refuge for the poor
A ruined mortal a quarry for accusers but forage for the poet
No matter the cunning snake that wallows in his deceit,
no matter the smirking ghoul who destroys a career,
the gossip who barters a confidence like cheap candy,
or the trusted friend for whom betrayal is a conquest
Even the repentant face in my mirror seeks amends
We hold a dance in the old barn for the lovelorn,
pretending we are not the target of the fiddle’s song
We thrust our hand into the poor box, denying our hunger
for the taste of human comfort, of slaking the thirst for touch
We witness the breaking of bonds, the loss of redemption
No matter the ink dripping red and thick as blood,
beating a drum’s dirge so close to the heart
The heat of fever spreads across the dampened cloth
Here in the shack lit by the flame within my marrow,
nerve endings steal my breath, fright scores my flesh
All the sorrows of life and demise, of hope and regret
Just this side of one being’s view of all’s fair,
another’s sight of conflict shrieking grievance,
each begging for sympathy and a sacred verse
To me, the ash heap of sorrow and confession,
Remains the mewling rasp of story, and I will tell it
Just a thought 43
Old barn photo courtesy Pixabay
Happy 4th of July, Americans.
However you celebrate, remember that freedom is a lifestyle people worldwide struggle to achieve.
Freedom marches on sore feet. Freedom cries on an empty belly. Freedom learns in all colors. Freedom prays in many languages. Freedom hurts. Freedom heals.
We all have a stake in making the Declaration of Independence and the American Constitution an ongoing force. An evolving reality that began with dissension over wordage and power. And changed. And changes still.
Be civil. Be fair. We are stronger united but many voices demand an ear. Listen. Read.
We are the face of humanity for the rest of the world.
We are the standard of liberty for all people.
Be civil. Be seen. Be loud. Be present.
March. Write. Speak. Think. Vote.
Assure rights to all Americans. Every day. Every year. Every place.
Life. Liberty. Pursuit of happiness.
Happy 4th of July.
Just a thought 42
Image: United States of America Declaration of Independence
Sharon Lynne Bonin-Pratt began her writing career the way so many others have done: by first doing everything else. Winning entries in grade school art, story, and essay contests convinced her to become a writer, but the real world intruded in adulthood and demanded she pay bills, raise kids, be a contributing member of the community. Along that rutted path she worked in the commercial art field designing patterns for surfer shorts, bikinis, and Hawaiian style shirts, taught after-school art through a city recreation program, and structured an art curriculum for three private schools. Ten years ago the writing muse, struggling to breathe in letters to friends and art articles, found its way to the surface. In a two-week period Shari wrote 60 pages of her first historical novel, and didn’t stop for three years. By then a second book demanded paper – OK, computer space – and now the third is in final revision stage. Of course, final revision is two words with a long shadow and a little footprint. Some folk claim they will write when the floors get vacuumed, the family accounting completed, the new garden planted. Shari is proof that all those things can be successfully ignored but not the urge to write. Her fiction explores human relationships, revenge, rage, forgiveness, redemption, and all the labyrinthine quandaries that mess up otherwise perfect lives. She resides in Southern California with her husband who’s learned to vacuum but not to cook. And the garden needs help.
Sharon Bonin-Pratt's Ink Flare 