Saturday, October 16, 2010

The Sea. THE SEA!

Hello blog world, This is Jeff. Here's my spiel:
After my first Creative Writing Guild meeting, I thought, I could sail around the world with these people. An odd thought for sure, but I justified it with thoughts of the group's utter beguilement. They are charming folk; They should be met by everyone. This I certainly agree to. But as far as the sailing goes, I've decided to scuttle the boat. Perhaps this group writing may give you some idea as to why.

The Sea.
A formless thing given form by borders, by politics; by tyrants guessing where the tyranny ends on the water. Where it ends, that's where the sea begins. the sea is the ultimate dictator. Masters of the formless being are truly servant of the sea. A diplomatic approach is to travel by yacht.

Hey you stupid, get out of the water. Drowning in a sea of blankets night after night, blinking the salty water out of his eyes. Tossing and turning in the waves. Waking up the wife who just wants to sleep, Terry.

A.K.A the ocean. Big, deep, and cold. Do you remember how the salt water smells? Like wet mist and a ship captain's beard. You might not, cause this is Chicago, and the beach here is nowhere close. But if you get up at 6am on a rainy day in the fall when the air is thick, it's close.

Amidst thick air stood a girl who had nowhere to go.

Wait, is that a girl? I rubbed my eyes. My eyesight is damaged a little by the salty breath of wind coming from the sea surface.

Maybe it was a mermaid. I shudder - I never really liked mermaids, having a bad experience at Disneyland. But the sea, the sea, the sea! It's calling me. Telling me to hush and lay down and bury myself under layers and layers of rock and sand. Will I become a fossil, reserved for her only?

Ah yes, it is a group capable of great, imaginative writing, but as you can see, incapable of commanding large bodies of water. Imagine the yacht envy, nightmare plagued, debilitated nostalgic, non-purposeful standing, bad eyesight, self digging grave disaster that would ensue. Oh Terry!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Hit the ground swimming, dashing and washing, escaping and frothing, there betwixt things neither here nor twixt. Mysterious and dark, mother all, salt and water of life and limb. The mother hen must call her chickens home! Roaming away, pounding the dullness of night and the desert of day, looking for the where we never knew, the whom you cannot trust, but dream of in the seamless space where you sink far beneath your sheets, and you're pulled by your ear towards something so clear, so clear you cannot see. The sea, THE SEA! Mom! I'm coming!