We have a phrase this week to serve as your writing prompt.
…passing through a doorway in history
There is no restriction on format of the piece. There is no last date either, unless you wish to be featured in the Weekly Wrap.
Duncan’s head hurt. His pursuit of truth is a hunger he knows can never be satisfied in a conclusion. He wonders, “Is the past truly a mosaic of endless opinions or is there more?” To become an observer by passing through a doorway of history would give him more evidence but trusting his eyes and ears has limitations. The “who he is”- a being marinated in modern day culture and sensibilities- would be a tremendous disadvantage to an unbiased reenactment. He knows that the understanding of history is disserved by only studying collections of modern intellectual interpretations after the fact. It needs to be excavated for evidentiary fossils that prove each past moment was once alive and three-dimensional. So, Duncan reads everything he can find… journals and diaries, essays and articles. His focus is on the founding of his country. Not from any patriotic duty or political position, as one might guess, but because he has Spatial Sequence Synesthesia, and his personal ‘mental map’ oddly always balances on a fulcrum in the late 1800s. His internal visual timeline stretches to infinity toward the past and future from the 1860s every time he withdraws his focused perspective and tries to ‘see’ all of Time. His ‘gift’ is either a peculiar mental defect or a sign of something special and Duncan doesn’t believe in coincidences, so he feels compelled to understand more. He’s somehow tied to that period.
I wish him well. He may never find a full understanding, but Duncan doesn’t care as long as he collects knowledge that he can absorb through his 5 senses and his heart, bringing the past alive again. He’s a guy I’d like to talk with!
For today’s Poetics, I want you all to write a poem about August. Feel it in your bones. Come tell us what the month means to you. You can write about it in terms of weather and mood, write inspired by the examples shared above or opt to compose a darker, more philosophical piece. The choice is yours!
There you are, August, One step below the ‘top’. Stretched longest on my ‘map’ Born from a child’s viewpoint.
Lazily I’ll climb toward September along your pathway.
[ I was 60 years old before I found my answer to a lifelong question. “Doesn’t everybody visualize months of the year in a 3D realm?” After years of blank dumbfounded responses to my statements about “seeing” numbers, days of the week, and months of the year, in three dimensions, I found out that I have Spatial Sequence Synesthesia! Those with this viewpoint have uniquely individual “mental maps” of all kinds of sequences. It’s a fascinating gift/defect caused by overlapping senses. Children are born with overlapping senses but supposedly outgrow them. Not everyone! Synesthesia takes MANY forms. I encourage everyone to look it up. As for my poem, the mention of any month draws an immediate visual personal response. I’ve attached a link to my former post on the topic.] https://sillyfrogsusan.com/2018/08/29/spatial-sequence-synesthesia/
THIS WEEK’S CHALLENGE: Choose either sight, sound, or smell, and write a memory it triggers in you.
I’m a big fan of actively purposefully connecting with my senses. When something catches my eye, I pursue it for more sensual input. Yes, that’s probably why my career with children has been so rewarding. That’s exactly what kids do and why not being able to touch or sniff a priceless work of art, is unbearable for them. My example comes from an experiment that asked me to recall a sensation. I became intrigued by articles about Native American Spirit Animals. There’s no doubt in my mind that human beings are inseparable from Nature and that spiritual signs are everywhere. So, there was a proposed experiment to find your own ‘spirit animal’. I thought, why not? The experiment suggested a quiet calm space where you could just clear your mind in a meditative state and the first animal that presented itself to you would be your spirit guide. Did I mention that I was skeptical? I wasn’t even sure that I was capable of clearing my mind. Well, I did it. As I sat quietly, I suddenly heard the sound of red-winged blackbirds. I hadn’t heard them in a long while, at that time, because I wasn’t living by a marshy area. (That sound also triggered happy childhood memories of my grandparents’ farm.) Red winged blackbirds were so outside of what I expected, and so specific, that I became a guarded believer that very day. I look up animal meaning information often now, especially when I notice an unusual array of them in a time period. There was such a time period right after my first granddaughter was born, when my photo adventures turned from frogs and salamanders to spiders. I was ALL about finding spiders! A few years into that new photo fetish, I found my book on animal meanings. I looked up spiders, for fun. Spiders mean Grandmother. “The spirit of grandmotherly love.” Just sayin’.
I'm nobody! who are you? Are you nobody too, then there's a pair of us. Don't tell! they'd advertise you know. How dreary-to be somebody. How public-like a frog. To tell one's name-the livelong June, to an admiring bog. Poem by Emily Dickinson.