[ Writing Sketches ]

In death I was alive. An essence enveloped by a light of love. I felt as a babe in the caring, protective bosom of its mother. It was love eternal. A divine warmth carried me, in gentle, invisible arms, into a fantastic scene: before my eyes the roaring rage of the sun, fixed in the blackness of space, appeared in waves of orange-red flames. Above me a choir of sweet angelic voices seductively called for me to retire to my celestial home. In a distance, an assemblage of familiar faces with fine white garments were stationed at the end of curved path. They summoned me with outstretched arms toward a broad, towering threshold; its massive gates opened. On either end, two majestic pillars of exquisite gold, reached high into the eternal obscurity of the universe.

Adorned in pristine bell skirts and white floral headbands, the ballerinas assembled behind a massive stage curtain, lowered. Two stood coolly, veering their eyes off-stage. Around them an assemblage of angelic dancers mingled in anticipation – bent torsos, loose shoulders, and hair parted straight. It was grace at-the-ready. A reflective prima ballerina stood tall at the forefront of her class; her every step, flow of motion and posture unfolding in thought. With her initial pose set, the giant curtain began to rise to an ovation of theatergoers.

The tree monkeys giggled at their own antics. The first primate, in a dark blue t-shirt and shorts, covered his eyes, bored. Next to him sat two hysterical chimps bursting at the seams. The middle one of the bunch, the red shirted one, tried to contain himself but could not mask his cheery eyes. His face aglow. The third one, with elbows on bent knees, was defeated by his own hilarity. It was hard for the threesome, minus one, to keep straight faces. This shameless riot was caused, not by their infectious laughter, but by the poor soul behind the camera – a diminutive man speaking a choppy talk and maintaining an appealing grin; never keeping his bobble head steady – the mocked tourist with scrunched-up eyes.

How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase, “Dead End Street” actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested on such a block. Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the deceased at a cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity, like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice. Sometimes I would feel that I was born to die in that dreadful place. It was drab and gloomy, and it stunk of mildew in the mornings.

It was a dump. The house I lived in was a dump. Normal folks never live in a dump. Normal folks have gardens in their back yards, friendly neighbors, and fine plate settings. Normal folks have brightly colored walls, a pool in their back yard and an embroidered framed cloth with the words, “Home Sweet Home” near a sunlit window. But oh no, nothing like that in my dump. In my dump not a single picture frame hung on the walls. Not one lousy frame! “Dump Bitter Dump” would be the words defining that house.

Now If a solicitor would come calling, our listless Fred – our brave mutt – would hardly bring alarm to such a daring cretin. Fred would simply amble up to the fence, give you a long, lazy look-over, before retreating back into the shadows… (incomplete)

copyright – 2013

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