Why I Write
To escape ghosts.
Only the literary present contains antidotes to the poisoned past.
Nightly mocking shadows scream at me, unsolved puzzles demanding solution.
Ancient sadness crying out for surcease. Old wounds, betrayals, and worst of all, inadequacies, are replayed and attacked. 'What might have been...' 'If only I had been...' Spinning circular, they cry for a linear end.
Finally, in broad daylight, poised at my desk, I write; and find a moment's peace...until, hundreds or thousands of words later, by day's end, the sun, falling again, brings night, hated quiet, and the re-awakening of those old ghosts.
I quiet them before sleep with the promise of tomorrow's writing. They are contecnt...but only for a moment. They emerge again in sleep, a pack of baying wolves. A new form, but the howling is frighteningly the same.
Only the literary present contains antidotes to the poisoned past.
Nightly mocking shadows scream at me, unsolved puzzles demanding solution.
Ancient sadness crying out for surcease. Old wounds, betrayals, and worst of all, inadequacies, are replayed and attacked. 'What might have been...' 'If only I had been...' Spinning circular, they cry for a linear end.
Finally, in broad daylight, poised at my desk, I write; and find a moment's peace...until, hundreds or thousands of words later, by day's end, the sun, falling again, brings night, hated quiet, and the re-awakening of those old ghosts.
I quiet them before sleep with the promise of tomorrow's writing. They are contecnt...but only for a moment. They emerge again in sleep, a pack of baying wolves. A new form, but the howling is frighteningly the same.
posted by Cliff Osmond at 4:32 PM
2 Comments:
cliff...
I really enjoy your comments on life. Times were indeed tough growing up on 6th street, especially for you. I remember Sam, Kurt and your wonderful Mom. In spite of all the hardships you endured, you flurished and turned all of that early pain into a talent that has the ability to touch people's lives...few can do that. And, fewer made it out of 6th street to the heights that you reached.
My Mother always said that you would make it big...she was so right!
Keep writing...I'll keep reading.
From one 6th streeter to another...well done.
Warm regards to you & yours.
Bob Ballotta
Cape Cod, MA
P.S.
An early happy birthday...many, many more!
Bob:
I don't believe I ever wrote you back. I tried to find an e-address...but no luck. Hopefully you will visit this comment page again and we can re-establish contact.
I remember vividly (that is, if my brain hasn't betrayed me!) you and your family across the street, especially your Dad and the garages next to your house and the grocery store and the steps on the New York Avenmue side of your house (and the black and white TV you had and that we used to come over on Tuesday nights()? to watch Texaco Star Theater...that was the first TV I had ever seen!!!) We used to slide down those steps on our rumps in the snow; and I remember our playing marbles in the dirt alongside our homes. At what age did your family leave? I remember us together young, but not older.
Hmmmm! Memory is so fleeting and specific and yet vaporous.
Thanks for contacting me, old friend from childhood. I hope all is well with you and yours.
E-mail me on my Website if you are so inclined.
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