Thursday, March 5, 2009

Window Ways

Click on photos to enlarge!
"A beautiful soul has no other merit than its own existence."

"Truth is the cry of all, but the game of few."

Koko Head Crater

"He lei poina 'ole ke keiki."
"A lei never forgotten is the beloved child."
Hawaiian Wisdom

A window is a lens, a frame. It focuses attention nicely. The entirety of sky, sea and mountains can overwhelm the reduced senses of us modern "screen dwellers." But the clouds above still move at their own glandular pace. Or as today, several layers of cloud traffic play a stately tableau in corps de ballet and chorus lines. . .

If a window is a framing device, then the port hole above my key board is an even better, for the eye ever loves a plump and pleasing roundness. Especially one bringing light, like the oculis concave-crowning the Pantheon and other such ancient magnificenses (magnificent edifices - preferable?).

Like the tiny muses resident in my own head, I peer out of the port-hole eyes of the skull which is my boat; or retreating deeper within it I cook up the next lettered souffle` to serve to all y`all. Like Santa-nibbled cookies on Christmas morning, you leave me comments like a profusion of gifts! The isolated, bookworm kid is thrilled to have such jolly friends! And just like Father Christmas, I know all your profiles and blogs. Who's naughty (Akelamalu, Bubble Wench, Daryl) who's nice (Ralph Neckman, Junosmom, English Girl, River Poet, Gran, and about a thousand others) and who is simply a singular gem, a joy, a pal (Chris "your scribe" of Cuneiform Scratchings) or a writing coach, a teacher, a treasure (Travis, Charles Gramlich, Brother T, Dave King, Barbara M, Carmi, Gemma, Braja, Magic Eye, Abraham Lincoln). . .

Seems I've gotten off track - and left out some of the best - my apologies if you are one of them - it's my melted brain, and this profusion of webby butterflies that befuddles me. But back to windows. . . .

A prisoner, or a writer chained to a lap top, who has but a piece of a view possesses a magic carpet on which imagination may take it's cliche`d (but no less true) flight. The scribbled notes brought back might contain gibberish - or literature (small "l"). But aren't those flights always worth taking?

I have sat in the wild, the woods; quietly in a single spot for ages - or ten minutes. And only at length noticed a glittering treasure (stick, stone, or creature) near enough to touch. . . .

Like that deer, years ago - but present in my memory - closer than I realized, who suddenly stamped and snorted a mighty blast of visible breath. . . before disappearing through the darkening glade. And so home to dinner. It was a school day tomorrow.

Thank you for coming! I shall have recovered my reason by tomorrow (more's the pity) So enjoy the view through your window, your eyes. It is always changing. So capture the deer in your living room against the day when it may be but a memory.
A L O H A! Cloudia