Post: 8
Books Sold: 0 (currently unpublished)
eBooks Sold: 1
(currently unpublished)
Pages in Grumble: 149
Reviews of
Grumble: 1
Pages in Jumble: 110
If you look at the header of my blog posts, you will see only one thing has changed in the great intervening of months: I have added this post. No progress has been made on Grumble. Perhaps life has intruded. Perhaps weakens intervenes. Perhaps fear holds sway. While I feel the need to allow free thought to take flight, that same free thought is only free within the stark confines of my thoughts. The dreams soar while the dreamer weeps, unable to lift his mental thoughts enough to be able to rise physically beyond the minimum necessary to placate my overdeveloped sense of responsibility. I teach. I grade. I tutor. I change diapers. I wash dishes. And then I sit, starring at the mental picture of my dream. A dream that encompasses so much beyond my simple effort of authorship: The opportunity to witness the coming rebirth of the Republican party. The opportunity to witness the continuing chaning attitudes of America. The opportunity to ponder what all of these changes mean for arrival of all arrivals that I expect to witness in these next few years. And each idea that gives flight sees so many images that I spend time trapped with the inability to reconcile my overdeveloped sense of responsibility with dreamer's dream in flight as I did just a few short months ago.
So I sit in my plastic webbed, aluminum tubed folding chair on the wharf of dreams where the Authorship is docked. There is a chop in the waves that has her tugging insistently at the rope, beakoning to let her loose. She has felt my dreams fill her holds and knows those same dreams will fill her sails once I am aboard.
And with a sigh the comes from my toes, I stand, I fold the chair, I sit at the table of reality, pull out some delayed grading, click my red pen, brush an imagined tear from my eye, and let loose the torrent of effort for completing the task at hand.
But she knows I am there. I can hear the waves slap her hull. I can hear the susurration of rigging against rigging as a gentle undertone. I can hear the creak of the fine-honed wood offering counterpoints to the hull slaps. A symphony of beakoning.
And still I sit.
I pray the Master of Tempest and Sea will unleash her, for I have bound her and find myself without strength to undo even one knot.
