Visions that encompass me

When I look into myself, to find my inspiration to write, there is always a scene that my mind plays back to me. If you could take the culmination of what you are feeling and create a place that was the representation of it what would it look like? That is how The City of Rain was born. For me it is the ultimate representation, the metaphor, for my artistic mind. Well that's pretty depressing you say. I beg to differ, it perhaps can be a very somber place, however I find it quite comforting.

The streets are grey cobblestone, the houses are all similar to small mill houses. The windows are old panes, smeared on the edges with paint and time. The doors are worn, the handles shine from people passing through. The town is silent except for the penetrating sound of soft rain, falling on the rooftops, the tree leaves, and splashing on the street. The sky is thick with clouds, the blue of the sky softly radiates through them, giving the grey tones a soft muted blue hue, the world feels cool and serene. The dampened colors and the perpetual pit-pat of the rain envelop me in a comforting world deprived of any sensations but ones born of the natural world. There are no cars humming on the street, not telephones ringing, no people crowding and talking, nothing to ignite that alert state of sensory abuse we live in.

The constant rain is something that always drives my mind into a contemplative state. People so often recognize rain as something to do with tears and depression. Soft gentle rains that nourish our world are favor poured out onto us. Rain is an amazing thing, powerful at times and frightening, but is also able to lull us into the most peaceful sleeps. It can represent our mood more truly than many things, providing us with a sense of understanding. Feeling that our state of mind has some how been picked up on and mirrored by the world is comforting to us.

There is always a small chapel, empty except for me. A very small cemetery outside guarded by a large oak tree. The chapel is the only place I ever enter into in this city. The rest of my time is spent peering into windows. Only two people besides myself have ever existed in this city. A little girl drawing figures on a broken window sitting in the grass, and a middle aged traveler. Perhaps in these things I see each stage of our mental lives. An unabashed creativity in the child, the ever-seeking, ever-changing, life of the middle aged traveler, and the culmination of all things in the small grave yard.

What does your place look like?

At least the view....

At least the view from my cage is nice. I doubt you would hear any animal in the zoo say that (perhaps partly because they do not talk. But you get my drift) That's the only thing I can think while I look out the sealed up window beside my desk, that and, I really wish it opened. The sun is out and the trees are beautiful, I'm sure its a miserably humid southern summer day, but I wish I was on the boat all the same.

I have found recently that stroking my creative intellect is like opening a can of worms, the more I think, write, and read, the more my creative thoughts bubble over. I use writing as an outlet for it, but the more I write, the more I have to say. So I've been toying with the idea of taking art lessons to try and relieve some of this creative tension. If that also spurrs any more creative thoughts and tendency's I think I may very well burst. Even when I was very small I always enjoyed doing anything creative, making Christmas tree ornaments or new coin jars, it wasn't always writing, but I had to flex my creative muscles to feel happy. I have interests in pretty much all the known arts, I did lots of stage acting in my teenage years, I've always drawn moderately well, while I cannot sing I am able to play musical instruments with some success if I practice. On the other side of the coin, watching me play sports or do a math problem is about as awkward as a camel climbing a mountain of ice.

I can also remember a lot of stories my mother always told me before bedtime. I'm a lot like her in my opinion, she is also a writer but in terms of what we write, and how we write, we could not be on farther ends of the spectrum. She has written some of the best bedtime stories I can think of to date. She is an incredibly gifted story teller, and that is not my strong suit. I am highly technical and am more of an essay/persuasive writer, even though I have written my share of stories they really pale in comparison to hers. Some I can still recall almost word for word. Her writing is very uplifting. We are two different spirits yet very much the same. My father is very technical, a perfectionist, and somewhat cynical. I think some of my differences from her come from his hand in my genetics and upbringing.

That's just a little insight on who I am, as my mind wanders on this beautiful summer day.