Leaving behind the chaotic façade which most think of as the real world I continue down the silent road. Small things dart around inside the tall grass looking for the lost echo of birds. A world without bird’s songs is a creation without a voice. The silver sky weeps as muted wind howls in vain. The grasses and trees began to sway gently as if dancing in time with a forgotten memory. What was the tune? It’s on the tip of my useless tongue. I have to find the answer. As I search in despair for the solution I see movement out of corner of my eye. The dark shape floats above my head and I recognize the outline of a raven. The black feathers are almost iridescent and it’s unnaturally large. In its beak it carries a scroll. It would shriek if shrieking existed. The scroll lands at my feet. I unroll the parchment and the raven circles awaiting my reaction to the mystery I hold. Scratched on the inside of the parchment were ancient symbols that spoke of lost magic and words “The road ends in silence but begins in music. Let one who knows the secrets be the voice.” I nodded to raven and he dipped a wing in reply. I would undertake his quest to where the road begins.
… to be continued.
Tag: dreaming
Caves of Ice and a nod to Samuel Taylor Coleridge
On my way to my day job I spotted this snow capped mountain. In spite of my fuss old man winter persists. Since Old Man Winter wanted another portrait I obliged him once again. (Hopefully he’ll be satisfied enough to leave this time.)
As I sat in my warm pickup truck along the Kanawha River looking up at the mountain my mind brought up the poem Samuel Taylor Coleridge‘s Kubla Kahn and I wondered if one were to take the trek up to the peak if he would find the entrance to Xanadu. Can you hear the dulcimer and the song of Mount Abora? Do want to explore the caves of ice? But alas, responsibly calls and there’s little time for adventure today. I snapped a few shots and head down river to my day job. Perhaps they’ll serve honeydew for lunch and I’ll still feel like an adventure when I clock out.
Daydreams
Sometimes when I’m out in yard looking at the small stream that flows through my property it looks like a tiny raging river. I have made a concentrated effort to maintain and cultivate my Peter Pan Syndrome. I still toss leaves into the water and race them downstream. The small minnows in the eddies become sharks. A crayfish makes a fine sea monster and the rocks are islands that are ripe for expiration. Who said that being a grown-up means that there’s no time for daydreaming? Gene Roddenberry once said that the best part about the success of Star Trek was having a nice office to daydream in. He made a successful career out of pretending to have adventures in the vastness of outer space. Sure, he used the format to tell morality plays and make important comments about society but in my mind’s eye I can see him with a toy Enterprise having space battles with Klingons. I’ll bet that when nobody else was in the room he even made the “pew pew” sounds of Phasers and photon torpedoes. I have seen a lot of writers post about the finer points of creativity and how to properly relate your story to the audience but it all starts with holding onto a daydream.
Ready for take off
The image above was taken at Northgate Business Park in Kanawha County West Virginia.
When I look at this image I’m taken back forty some years. Back to a time before digital photography and drones. A time when many of the conveniences we enjoy today were science fiction. We used to fly kites on a ridge like this one. We learned what was like to hold the wind in your hands. I was always convinced that one day I would build a kite large enough carry me into the clouds. I would go out on windy days with a jacket and find a nice windy spot. I would open the zipper and stick my hands in the jacket’s pockets and stretch out like a kite. I would close my eyes and turn into wind catching it my jacket. I would sway and tilt just like the kites did. As I grew older, I learned that jackets don’t make good hang gliders but I never lost that dream. Even today I will sometimes open my jacket with hands in pockets and imagine that I’m floating in the wind. Perhaps that’s one reason why I like this spot. It looks like a great runway and I just happen to be wearing my flying jacket today.
Beneath Dreaming Tree
There is a place in my dreams where a lone tree stands bridging heaven and earth.
As nighttime falls and the land sleeps the clouds come dancing by.
Stars sing in chorus to the nightbird’s lonely cry.
A maiden enters my dreams. Her green eyes pierce the night and she takes my hand.
Rise up you sleeper she whispers softly.
This dream is short and our time has come.
Our thoughts and hearts are one.
But all too soon will come the dawn.
And our dreamworld will too soon be gone.
For sunbeams shatter dreams and the life that will be.
We loved and laughed with warm embrace beneath that single tree.
Til golden light erased the night and stole my dreams from me.
Beneath the sun I toil, the dream still in my head.
With hopes that my dream returns to me, when tonight I go to bed.
LLOYD'S LENS PHOTOGRAPHY LLC 