Where are the ideas? Where are the stories?
Hiding behind massive fungi-covered oaks. Rolled up in wet leaves. Moping under boulders overwhelmed by time. Close to the ground. Hugging it. Afraid to stand straight, to jump up and fly. The sun fights to find a space here. Flickering hot and cold, cold and hot, flickering on my face like a Morse code I can’t decipher.
Where is my creative mind? I lost it. Only the practical, pragmatic, eat-sleep- work mind is here. The other one took a hike. Fed up. Out the door. Slam, bam, no thank you ma’am. I need air. I need space. I’m too damned rigid here. Bye. So long. Adios. Au revoir. Arrivederci.
My mind in r-u-m-i-n-a-t-i-n-g. Searching for words. Damn it! Where are the words? Not in that quiet forest.
My mind should be on top of a taxi wildly careening around New York City. Jumping off and running down Times Square, tearing gold chains off startled men’s necks. Yanking off their precious symbols, leaving snakey wounds on their skin scarred by my snatching their gold.
I take the express elevator to the top of the Empire State Building where I rush from corner to corner, leaning over the railings, pondering the height. No big deal. King Kong climbed it. Holding Fay Wray, then Jessica Lange, now me. His eyes bulging in his beautiful black, love-starved face. His thick lips baring white teeth. Heavy gold chains jangling against his enormous welcoming chest. When the planes come to shoot him down, he grabs at his neck, at the chains pounding against his heart. The missiles explode around him, in him. He’s stung with love.
My mind should be there in his arms, smelling his fear. Writing it down. Word for word for word.
King Kong, King Kong... Yo’ feets too big fo’ me bed. ######