While the Burning West Burned
the morning glow of amber red in your eyes from smoke-filled skies and last goodbyes
Reflecton:
I wrote this end of summer ‘23, while the burning West burned. Every year when show season ends, the skies are fire red. That morning included my heart.
Writing Prompt:
Write a four line story of a last goodbye. Include your heart.
#poeticvignettes #poetry #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #writingprompts #writing #creativewriting #journaling #heart
Deliver ME, Boss
from 
wystswolf
I watched an artist battle his demons, and I understood completely.
I just came from the new Springsteen biopic, Deliver Me From Nowhere.
It hit me harder than I expected — blindsided me, honestly. It is one of the best examples I've seen of how art breaks us and heals us. This essay me seeing the shape of things from the field, not as a spectator.
The Musical-less Wolf 
I have never been a huge Springsteen fan. I like his hits and appreciate his success. In recently years, I am learning I have never really had a relationship with music.
I think if I had, at a younger age, I would be dramatically different than I am.
Diving deep on lyrics and music is like discovering I had been living in the foyer of a mansion my whole life. Opening the door to the rest of the house was and continues to be exceptionally exciting.
What I Thought About the Movie (it's about time)
My wife is the Springsteen fan. She has lots of stories of his songs defining parts of her life. In fact, if she was a better communicator, I think I would have come into my own as an appreciator of music much sooner in life.
So it was she who said, 'Hey, new Springsteen biopic is playing tonight at 10, wanna go?'
We were late. We're always late. Movies now habitually play a half an hour of ads and trailers before movies. No thanks. But we'd miscalculated and missed the first 10 minutes of the film. It's not a big deal, I like to say, it'll feel like watching it for the first time the next time.
When we arrived, Springsteen's manager has already rented him a house to help the artist recenter as his fame begins to affect his creativity.
The story is the artist's struggle with the demons of emotional baggage. Something with which I very much resonated. I first found my eyes welling when I watched him struggling to write and capture the muse. I understand the grind and the frustration. He even tells a friend, when he is in the process, he's no good to anyone.
I am blown away I have something so profoundly in common with this poet/singer/songwriter. I don't know why, it is likely part of what makes art so hard to do. But, it felt like discovering light, or air. And it opened me up a little.
Of course, the departure comes when labels throw stacks and stacks at the Boss for his work.
You know what? He'd do it even if he didn't get paid. Art is a form of mental illness. It chooses us as much or possibly more than we choose it. And I feel like the filmmaker did a good job of showing it. This story was Bruce trying to get something out of him through his art, and God bless him for not letting the money people screw it up.
Art has become commerce. Greedy people always want more. They would charge us for air if they could. And with art, this is exactly what they've done. A friend gave me a magnet that says: 'Earth without Art is just Eh'.
Clever, but true. We have to create.
The best and worst thing that could happen to any of us is we get paid for our art. Even worse, getting paid well for it, necessitating the artist perform. And not the good, cathartic kind of performance. The you-are-a-slot-machine kind.
Artists need their protectors. Springsteen's came in the form of his manager/friend, Jon Landau.
If the film is accurate, I have to give Landau credit for Bruce Springsteen existing in the form that we know of him. It seems to me, without his bulwark, Springsteen would have been bulldozed under the machinery of profit. But, while Bruce was writhing on the floor with his monsters (LITERALLY at one point in the film), Landau was a I-dont-give-a-damn-sabout-your-spreadsheet-cheerleader for the Boss.
Damned. I loved that.
I've made my living from my art in one form or another for 30 years. It's not an impressive living, but it is a living. I can't tell you how often I've just felt like a commodity. Useful for the lowest possible price and then just cast aside when I wasn't profitable anymore.
Landau had faith in a friend and an artist. We should all be so fortunate to have someone (or someoneS) like that in our lives. 'In this office, we BELIEVE in Bruce.' Man, I really hope he said that. It's a great line.
I felt connected to the performance. I was watching the reality of a once and always tortured artist. I won't say I wept through the entire film... but I was bleary-eyed frequently!
Fathers and Ghost
Springsteen's relationship with his father is central to his life course. This was yet another heart-rending connection for me. While my experience was different, I can absolutely relate to an emotionally absent dad. Toward the end, Bruce is beginning his trajectory to superstardom and at 32, he has a private meeting with his father after a performance.
His dad asks him to sit on his lap.
I think a lot of us feel like we weren't enough for our fathers. Or that we were the wrong son or daughter. And it messes us up.
It produces only two kinds of people:
1) they who blame mom and/or dad for all their woes and celebrate their victimhood their whole lives, producing one bad experience after another.
2) they who struggle with the baggage, but ultimately understand their father (or both parents) were doing the best they could with the tools they were given.
It is a mark of high emotional intelligence to understand generational trauma.
And even higher intelligence to overcome it.
For several years, Springsteen almost lost that battle. In the end, he tamed the dragon and wielded it to great creative effect. I think we are all richer for the fight.
Talk about thanking your parents for your success!
I don't know if this is a good biopic, or even a good movie. I was far to lost in the emotion of it all to be even close to objective. I do think the recent Chalamet-Bob Dylan biopic was probably better in terms of narrative storytelling.
From my point of view 'Deliver Me' was more about exploring the struggle and emotion of being a true creative and a very difficult part of an artists life. The narrative of this was so powerful, that the usual tropes of this happens, then this happens, then it's all okay kind of got lost in the process.
And I think that's beautiful.
10 stars — ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Recommend.
Some standout scenes for me:
Taking Faye to an amusement park at 2am
Making music with the basics, just him and a guitar, a guy and a few tape machines.
Springsteen, at a low point, races his Camaro through the New Jersey woods, ultimately careening out of control as a result of slipping into an un hinged rage.
Laying on this living room floor listening to Suicide's Frankie Teardrop on repeat.
Seeing his father and younger self at the fair in El Paso
The moment when the therapist tells him to say as much or as little as he wants
Sitting on his father's lap as a 32 year old rock star
It was an exceptional experience. One that I'm not sure I've had before in quite this way. Will it change my life measurably? Not in that today-is-a-brand-new-day sort of way. But, there is comfort in seeing yourself in the art of another.
I like to say that great art is not owned, it is experienced, or entered. And by that measure, Deliver Me From Nowhere is high art. At the very very least, I have been triggered to look more closely at his catalog. Particularly tonight, I am listening to the album Nebraska on repeat.
Springsteen was painting his Whistler's Mother—Nighthawk Cafe—his American Gothic. What BLOWS ME AWAY, is that he knew it. I have never created anything with the certitude that he did with this album. And perhaps that makes me weep too—realizing what a hopeless fraud I really am.
But, if so, maybe I can find work as a music critic.
Love always,
Wolf
#essay #100daystooffset #writing #story #osxs #music
Nebraska
Bruce Springsteen – 1982
Man, this is some dark stuff. I didn't realize it until I read the lyrics of the album.
NEBRASKA
I saw her standing on her front lawn Just a-twirling her baton Me and her went for a ride, sir And ten innocent people died From the town of Lincoln, Nebraska With a sawed-off .410 on my lap Through the badlands of Wyoming I killed everything in my path I can't say that I'm sorry For the things that I've done At least for a little while, sir Me and her, we had us some fun Well, the jury brought in a guilty verdict And the judge, he sentenced me to death Midnight in prison storeroom With leather straps across my chest Sheriff, when the man hits that switch, sir And snaps my poor head back You make sure my pretty baby Is sittin' right there on my lap Well, they declared me unfit to live Said into that great void, my soul'd be hurled They want to know why I did what I did And sir, I guess there's just a meanness in this world
ATLANTIC CITY
Well, they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night Now they blew up his house too Down on the boardwalk, they're getting ready for a fight Gonna see what them racket boys can do Now there's trouble busing in from out of state And the DA can't get no relief Gonna be a rumble out on the promenade And the gambling commission's hanging on by the skin of its teeth Well, now everything dies, baby, that's a fact Maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Well, I got a job and tried to put my money away But I got debts that no honest man can pay So I drew what I had from the central trust And I bought us two tickets on that Coast City bus Now baby, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold But with you forever I'll stay We're going out where the sand's turning to gold Put on your stockings, baby, 'cause the night's getting cold And everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Now I've been looking for a job, but it's hard to find Down here it's just winners and losers That don't get caught on the wrong side of that line Well, I'm tired of coming out on this losing end So, honey, last night I met this guy, and I'm gonna do a little favor for him Well, I guess everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your hair up nice, fix yourself up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City You'll meet me tonight in Atlantic City Go meet me tonight in Atlantic City Meet me tonight in Atlantic City ooh (Meet me tonight in Atlantic City) woo-ooh (Meet me tonight in Atlantic City) woo-ooh (Meet me tonight in Atlantic City) woo-ooh (Meet me tonight in Atlantic City)
MANSION ON A HILL
There's a place out on the edge of town sir Risin' above the factories and the fields And ever since I was a child, I can remember That mansion on the hill In the day you can see the children playing On the road that leads To those gates of hardened steel Steel gates that completely surround it The mansion on the hill At night, my daddy'd take me, and we'd ride Through the streets of a town so silent and still Park on a back road along the highway side Look up at that mansion on the hill In the summer, all the lights would shine There'd be music playin', people laughin' all the time Me and my sister, we'd hide out in the tall corn fields Sit and listen to the mansion on the hill Tonight down here in Linden Town I watch the cars rushin' by home from the mill There's a beautiful full moon risin' Above the mansion on the hill
JOHNNY 99
Ooh-ooh-ooh Ooh-ooh-ooh Well they closed down the auto plant in Mahwah late that month Ralph went out lookin' for a job but he couldn't find none He came home too drunk from mixin' Tanqueray and wine He got a gun, shot a night clerk, now they call him Johnny 99 Down in the part of town where when you hit a red light you don't stop Johnny's wavin' his gun around and threatenin' to blow his top When an off-duty cop snuck up on him from behind Out in front of the Club Tip Top they slapped the cuffs on Johnny 99 Well the city supplied a public defender but the judge was Mean John Brown He came into the courtroom and stared poor Johnny down Well the evidence is clear, gonna let the sentence, son, fit the crime Prison for ninety-eight and a year and we'll call it even Johnny 99 Fistfight broke out in the courtroom, they had to drag Johnny's girl away His mama stood up and shouted, “Judge don't take my boy this way” Well, son, you got any statement you'd like to make Before the bailiff comes to forever take you away? Now judge, judge I got debts no honest man could pay The bank was holdin' my mortgage and takin' my house away Now I ain't sayin' that make me an innocent man But it was more 'n all this that put that gun in my hand Well, your honor, I do believe I'd be better off dead And if you can take a man's life for the thoughts that's in his head Then won't you sit back in that chair and think it over just one more time And let 'em shave off my hair and put me on that execution line (woo)
HIGHWAY PATROLMAN
My name is Joe Roberts I work for the state I'm a sergeant out of Pineville Barracks number eight I always done an honest job As honest as I could I got a brother named Franky And Franky ain't no good Now ever since we was young kids It's been the same come down I get a call on the short-wave, Franky's in trouble downtown Well, if it was any other man, I'd put him straight away But when it's your brother sometimes you look the other way Me and Franky laughin' and drinkin' Nothin' feels better than blood on blood Takin' turns dancin' with Maria As the band played “Night of the Johnstown Flood” I catch him when he's strayin' like any brother would Man turns his back on his family Well, he just ain't no good Well, Franky went in the army, back in 1965 I got a farm deferment, settled down, took Maria for my wife But them wheat prices kept on droppin' 'Til it was like we were gettin' robbed Franky came home in '68 And me, I took this job Yeah, we're laughin' and drinkin' Nothin' feels better than blood on blood Takin' turns dancin' with Maria As the band played “Night of the Johnstown Flood” I catch him when he's strayin' Teach him how to walk that line Man turns his back on his family He ain't no friend of mine Well, the night was like any other I got a call 'bout quarter to nine There was trouble in a roadhouse Out on the Michigan line There was a kid lyin' on the floor lookin' bad Bleedin' hard from his head There was a girl cryin' at a table And it was Frank, they said Well, I went out and I jumped in my car And I hit the lights Well, I must have done a hundred and ten Through Michigan county that night It was out at the crossroads Down round Willow bank Seen a Buick with Ohio plates Behind the wheel was Frank Well, I chased him through them county roads 'Til a sign said Canadian border five miles from here I pulled over the side of the highway And watched his tail lights disappear Me and Franky laughin' and drinkin' Nothin' feels better than blood on blood Takin' turns dancin' with Maria As the band played “Night of the Johnstown Flood” I catch him when he's strayin' like any brother would Man turns his back on his family Well, he just ain't no good
STATE TROOPER
New Jersey turnpike, ridin' on a wet night 'Neath the refinery's glow, out where the great black rivers flow License, registration, I ain't got none But I got a clear conscience 'bout the things that I done
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me Please don't stop me, please don't stop me
Maybe you got a kid, maybe you got a pretty wife The only thing that I got's been botherin' me my whole life
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me Please don't stop me, please don't stop me
In the wee, wee hours, your mind gets hazy Radio relay towers gon' lead me to my baby Radio's jammed up with talk show stations It's just talk, talk, talk, talk, till you lose your patience
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me
Hey, somebody out there, listen to my last prayer Hi ho silver-o, deliver me from nowhere Hi ho
USED CAR
My little sister's in the front seat, with an ice cream cone My ma's in the backseat sittin' all alone As my pa steers her slow out of the lot For a test drive down Michigan Avenue Now my ma she fingers her wedding band And watches the salesman stare at my old man's hands He's tellin' us all 'bout the break he'd give us If he could, but he just can't Well, if I could, I swear I know just what I'd do Now mister the day the lottery I win I ain't ever gonna ride in no used car again Now the neighbors come from near and far As we pull up in our brand new used car I wish he'd just hit the gas and let out a cry And tell 'em all they can kiss our asses goodbye Dad, he sweats the same job from mornin' to morn' Me, I walk home on the same dirty streets where I was born Up the block, I can hear my little sister In the front seat blowin' that horn The sounds echo on all down Michigan Avenue Now mister the day my number comes in I ain't ever gonna ride in no used car again
OPEN ALL NIGHT
I had the carburetor cleaned and checked With her line blown out she's hummin' like a turbojet Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks For a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks Took her down to the carwash check the plugs and points I'm goin' out tonight I'm gonna rock that joint
Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime Gotta find a gas station gotta find a payphone This turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone Gotta hit the gas baby I'm runnin' late This New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape
The boss don't dig me so he put me on the nightshift It takes me two hours to get back to where my baby lives In the wee wee hours your mind gets hazy Radio relay towers won't you lead me to my baby Underneath the overpass trooper hits his party light switch Goodnight good luck one two powershift
I met Wanda when she was employed Behind the counter at the route 60 Bob's Big Boy Fried Chicken on the front seat she's sittin' in my lap We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill With them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still
5 A.M. oil pressure's sinkin' fast I make a pit stop wipe the windshield check the gas Gotta call my baby on the telephone Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home Sit tight little mamma I'm comin' round I got 3 more hours but I'm coverin' ground
Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers Radio's jammed up with gospel stations Lost souls callin' long distance salvation Hey Mr. DJ won't ya hear my last prayer Hey ho rock 'n' roll deliver me from nowhere
MY FATHER'S HOUSE
Last night I dreamed that I was a child Out where the pines grow wild and tall I was trying to make it home through the forest Before the darkness falls I heard the wind rustling through the trees And ghostly voices rose from the fields I ran with my heart pounding down that broken path With the devil snapping at my heels I broke through the trees and there in the night My father's house stood shining hard and bright The branches and brambles tore my clothes and scratched my arms But I ran 'til I fell shaking in his arms I awoke and I imagined, the hard things that pulled us apart Will never again, sir, tear us from each other's hearts I got dressed and to that house, I did ride From out on the road I could see its windows shining in light I walked up the steps and stood on the porch A woman I didn't recognize came and spoke to me through a chained door I told her my story and who I'd come for She said “I'm sorry son but no one by that name lives here anymore” My father's house shines hard and bright It stands like a beacon calling me in the night Calling and calling, so cold and alone Shining 'cross this dark highway where our sins lie unatoned
REASON TO BELIEVE
Seen a man standin' over a dead dog By the highway in a ditch He's lookin' down kinda puzzled Pokin' that dog with a stick Got his car door flung open He's standin' out on Highway 31 Like if he stood there long enough That dog'd get up and run Struck me kinda funny Seemed kinda funny sir to me Still at the end of every hard day People find some reason to believe
Now Mary Lou loved Johnny With a love mean and true She said baby I'll work for you every day Bring my money home to you One day he up and left her And ever since that She waits down at the end of that dirt road For young Johnny to come back Struck me kinda funny Funny yeah, indeed How at the end of every hard-earned day People find some reason to believe
Take a baby to the river Kyle William, they called him Wash the baby in the water Take away little Kyle's sin In a whitewash shotgun shack An old man passes away Take the body to the graveyard Over him, they pray Lord won't you tell us?
Tell us what does it mean At the end of every hard-earned day People find some reason to believe Congregation gathers Down by the riverside
Preacher stands with a bible Groom stands waitin' for his bride Congregation gone, the sun sets Behind a weepin' willow tree Groom stands alone and watches the river Rush on so effortlessly Wonderin' Where can his baby be Still at the end of every hard-earned day People find some reason to believe
I Don't do These
i don't do these things once as if to hold or preserve a moment forever i do them i forget then live again to remember until there's nothing left that's fleeting except the rush of repeating again and again
Reflection:
I don't carry space for nostalgia, because life is now, not then.
Writing Prompt:
What makes your life more beautiful now, or greater than, then?
#poeticvignettes #poetry #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #writingprompt #writing #creativewriting #journaling #nostalgia
Give Me Your Hands
from wystswolf
If love is the current, then let prayer be the tide — carrying us home to each other and to Him.
Ministration
When you hurt, I wish for nothing more in the world thant to hold you and tell you it's going to be okay. Because, it will be. Your future is certain. Be confident of this. It is the moment-to-moment that is the real challenge.
Existence in real-time can feel disastrous.
And words... God, words—they are so powerful—cutting into the heart and kidney, right to marrow... words have a force that lets them travel in and through time. They can move not only your mind, but your body as well.
Yet, words are less than the power of touch.
This is why being held and comforted is so intensely vital. You need touch. Someone to hold your hands until you fall asleep—and then to watch you safe and quiet while you heal.
Energy can be disrupted:
They may be gone. Or tragedy in the family. It is rainy and grey. There are vibrations in the spirit.
The list of an unsettled life is endless. And extroverts in particular need others to recharge in order to over come.
And you may wish desperately for that one perfect soul to be there with you and guide you through your discomfort and loss. And perhaps they wish it too. But acknowledge that dreams can never be held in your hands. Take solace in the knowledge that—if they could, they would dance with you, laugh with you, walk in the moonlight and make witty banter about the waxing crescent, or love in the night, and the spiders weaving their webs of salvation.
Oh! To have your playful imagination engaged with traded sillinesses.
And you have someone. We all have someone. They may not scratch the itch exactly the way you feel it needs, but they get close and you feel whole enough with them. And you will cherish this.
And soon, you will find that one who needs you to heal them. And suddenly you will no longer feel the weight of melancholy as you find yourself a caregiver. A savior. A protector and deliverer.
Enough
I don't only pray for you to be happy and safe and cared for, I KNOW you will be. Even if you feel like a broken toy sometimes. Or not enough. Or invisible. Or an asset. You are not those things. Not exclusively. Not even dominantly. You are a creature of love and light who knows how to celebrate life and live on the edge of out of control because that is where the most joy exists.
Ships are safest at port, but that is not what they are for. And you, my golden child, are a fine fast vessel, made for the sea. You are bound in lapped lumber of integrity and thoughtfulness. Ribs of caring and support. A rudder of conscience. Keel of hope. And—your mast—your finest quality. It is framed from the timber of Jehovah, so when you cast your sails of faith, the wind that fills them can blow a terrible tempest, but you, vessel of life... you will harness the force and the intensity will not rent you or break you. You will capture it for it's vigor to move you, fast and true in the direction of life and happiness.
And for those times you drift into the doldrums, those dead waters where no breath can be found. Those who love you will move you with the current of their energy.
Let the gentle whisper of “I Love You” restart your momentum.
You are cherished and lovable. Not for what you give and what others get , you are enough for who you are. You ARE THE ONE that is wanted. The glint in your eye, the spark in your heart, the lilt in your voice the power of your walk and your posture... for your mind—that reflection of love from the Creator.
I will apologize for they who let you down, disappointed you, took advantage of you or in any way damaged you. You are worthy of so much more. Your flaws are not flaws, the are features. You are a masterpiece on par with the great masterpieces of art... wild energy captured in the canvas of you.
Great art is not owned. It is entered. Which is why you find others in you.
I want to say all the words. All that have ever been. That are. That ever will be. Even if I could be a completist, prose will never suffice to capture the floodgates of my soul. What place does logic have in the chambers of the human heart? OH! Jehovah, that you've put in us this source of power that would move universes if you ask.
And, somehow, stay gravity.
If one thousand people love you, then one of them is me. If ten people love you, only nine are not I. If only one person loves you, that one is me. And if you find that no one loves you, then I am dead.
Bowed Head and Humble Heart
Tonight, in this prayer—if this be a prayer—Father, comfort and protect the disquieted souls. All of them, if possible, but especially those who love you and long for your love and approval. Help them to accept you, and to realize that to love you, we must first love ourselves. Help each of us to open the vault of our hearts from within, for we know you do not force us. I ask for help, as you know; though we have the tools to open our souls to you, we do not always have the knowledge or the strength.
Protect these good people and comfort them as they face the friction of an unfair existence. Give them patience, give them peace. Give them love — or rather, Jehovah, help them see they are lovable and accepted.
Enough.
And yet, even in our smallness, we ask again.
Thank you for it all, Jehovah. The hardship and the ease. If we are anything, thanks to you, we are not boring. If you will it, we will tell of our mad existence for all eternity to come. That which is tearful now, will one day be laughter, possibly wist. But it will never again be sadness or the dark in which we so often find ourselves.
And Father, if this moment is madness, then count me among the maddest. An artist and lover on the ragged edge of life. Standing at the tip of Gibraltar grazing stars with my fingertips. Severed ears are child's play compared to a bisected heart.
Make us whole. See us, Jehovah. Witness that we exist and while we could, we did what we could. Make them all whole, Jehovah. I know you see us with our handicaps, cripples that we are. How it must warm your heart and fill your ears with that roar of choked emotion to watch us drag ourselves through the mire of this system to lay our minds and hearts at your feet.
Thank you for making us in your image. We tiny little clay effigies of your love.
Whatever tomorrow brings to us Father, thank you for letting us walk with you this far. If it is your will, and you give us the power, we will walk on eternally as your friends.
Amen
wolfed
#confession #essay #story # journal #poetry #wyst #poetry #100daystooffset #writing #story #osxs
Sea Glass Memories
from wystswolf
Upon the shores of Biltwurt, Entwhistle in Eastern Wysterica was found a tiny blue gem.
The Journey
I love sea glass.
Not so much the actual objects themselves—though they are always beautiful—but the IDEA of sea glass and how it comes to be: Its journey from raw mineral to found art.
Just as the sand made everything round Just as the tar seeps up from the ground
Man takes sand and refines. Heats and shapes. Polishes. Packages. Sells. Someone buys it, uses it, possibly even loves it.
Then—inevitably—it is broken, lost, discarded.
And it finds its way to the sea where a life begins again. She remakes, sculpts, softens, reduces and carries it across time and tide, returning it home transformed.
When it arrives on the beach, many hears and countless miles have passed. The glass has changed: shape, texture, even purpose.
Sea glass somehow always becomes beautiful.
Like us, pressure, heat and friction takes a raw thing and forms something else entirely. The sea of life takes a human mind and heart and reforms it, the results are not always considered a thing of beautify—at least not by the one remade.
I often wonder:
How does the glass see itself in its new form as the hand of warmth begins to caress it?
The tide recedes, it is nestled in a bed of perfectly smooth sand, still wet before the heat of the day can close out the night's work. Does the little green or blue bit of detritus think itself a newfound gem and wait for the plucker to come and pluck?
Reflection
Or, more likely, does it think of its humble beginnings and how at one time it was so loved and lauded? As it was packaged and moved with care, then used so powerfully. Before that moment that disaster struck and it found itself cast aside and useless.
Become refuse.
Is it sad as it reflects on the long journey of so many miles? Or the maddening back-and-forth of the surf as it rolled across the sea floor? How hard it must have been when it smashed against the coral that broke it in pieces, dashing all hope that it might one day find itself beheld and loved again.
I think of its state when covered with the algae that would blur and blot its view of the world. And how lost it must have felt when wedged between the rocks and covered with sand. Lost in an eternity of darkness.
“All these things that have befallen you are what are common to sea glass. You shall not be overlooked.” ~ Book of Glass 10:13
Lost in the forest of a vast ocean, it cannot see itself, only feel its casting aside. Where it was once clean and pristine and useful, a thing loved because of its purpose, its usefulness—it would now find the transition difficult and the future unknowable.
The glass fears.
Until that day, the plucker plucked the newly made glass from the wet sand at the end of its journey.
At first, the glass doesn’t understand—it only knows exhaustion and surprise. But then, lifted into the sun, it realizes it is being seen. Loved, even.
Redemption
Now, with it's bulk cut away by time and tide, it's flashy shine worn to a satisfyingly gritty finish, it would bend and wield light in new and unexpected ways, exciting to all beholders, even the glass itself.
The tiny rock-like thing would suddenly discovered it was handled with care not because it served some grand purpose, but because it was beautiful. It would now be cherished because of it's journey, not the leverage it gave its holder.
Elevated from commodity to high art, the humble glass would now find that it's former uses were merely steps on a much longer journey to a crowning place in an artisan's palette.
Then the glass would rediscover pride, not in arrogance and superiority, but a pride in feeling seen... beheld as a thing of beauty unlike any other in the world. It would see there were others like, brothers and sisters, but not exactly as the sea glass was.
It would feel the warmth and love with which it was held as it was crafted and made even more attractive still when the artist matched the glass stone to a similar piece and set them in silver and gold.
Until, one sunny fall afternoon when a man and women the glass had never seen before would pluck it again. This time from a brilliantly lit carousel filled with other gems of glass.
As the little blue gem dangled and twinkled from the woman's ear at dinners, parties and gallery visits, the glass would not only see a world it never imagined possible, it would finally understand that its purpose was never in the first or even second life.
Here, nestled next to a lovely lithe neck silky and smooth where it would cast subtle blue kisses against the skin in the moonlight, it will have found its purpose:
To be held,
To be seen,
To feel loved and beautiful even as it made her even more so.
#poetry #confession #dream #sxs #wyst #100daystooffset #writing #beach #art #story #essay