I enjoy alliteration, as you can see in much of my writing. Using words that all start with the same letter: Misty mountain’s mystical majesty, alone, alive, above the silver sea… That is an excerpt of a poem I wrote in 7th grade. It was lost in the move from the northeast to Florida, an entire box of all my journals, poetry and artwork up to that year, 1983.
I stopped searching for it long before the call came from the moving company, asking if we had lost a box after that trip. Of course we had lost a box, but Father took the call, oblivious to the missing silver ware, a wooden carved hippo from Africa, and a plaster bust of a beautiful male negro, as well as the cardboard box of all my writing.
Writng poetry, drawing, journaling became an outlet for my isolation. I reached out with pencil and pen to an imaginary person who was always present for me- not waving me away, or shushing me because her favorite program was on. The recipient of my artistic efforts loved me, would never laugh, and especially would not compare my art to their own that they had done when they were my age.(And done better, of course…) No, my friend was so trustworthy, I could let my fancies fly out of me onto page after page. No subject too shocking for her to read, and only love in return. The person I imagined really saw me.
I think that she (my reader) is probably kind of like another personality, or something. When the greatest traumas in my life have occured, the healing comes from my written words -blood spilling onto paper, tears saturating the pages. I used to always write in my bed, falling asleep on the notebook, waking with writing instruments imprinted in my flesh like sheet wrinkles. I have not been able to see where I end ( and where “reader” begins) a couple of times in the past years- since my mother’s death. I used to think my “reader” was her, but she is not.
There were times over the years that my poems are prayers, my journal trying to plead unto the face of God. Maybe He would see my pain, see the real me inside who did not commit crimes, did not like to hurt people. In my journal there are entrys that end with an Amen. Now, years after I began writing I believe He not only reads my diary, but also my heart. My blue heart. Tired of the fight at times (like now), late at night when the wet overcoat of pain slips on.
Then there are times when my voice calls out to Dear Reader to soar with me- to a paradise of hopes, color, light and strength. To fly over oceans of deep velvet blue, the stars reflecting as if candles were glowing under the water. I see these things in my mind, these places I’ve been. Once I was stolen away in a boxcar from Tuscon to Yuma, with the wild mountain brush flying by as I watched: The canyons, deep clefts and crags in the rock, where all my gunfighters hid out in my dreams. I was one, I was that free spirit, and with my pen and paper I will always be.