For those that missed it, it was agreat day. A little windy, but at least the rain held out.
We got to meet another new author Robert Paul Weston. If you haven’t heard of him, check him out! We bought his two books, Zorgamazoo and Dust City. The former being a novel written entirely in rhyme. Kinda of a Dr. Seuss meets Lemony Snicket. He read a section aloud and now I’m anxious for my daughters to be finished so I can read it.
We ate from the shops along the street, saw some great art, I bought a metal raven silhouette, and of course heard some great poets including Sue Reynolds who read her Poetry Slam entry bringing a tear to even the most hardened souls. I’ll admit I had to blink back the waterworks.
That said, I did it. I read my piece around 10:00am to a sparce crowd while my knees knocked. Blue Heron Books now has copies of Wicked Words for sale it is also available on LULU both in paperback and electronically. My new bookmarks are at Blue Heron as well (Thank-you Shelley!!)
Here is the piece I read;
Snow robs the dark of its sight stealing powers and yet, during the day, this very same illuminator has the same properties as the darkest night.
Black and white, white and black, opposites and yet they share the same qualities, the same abilities. Both in essence are colours are yet they are, by definition, the absence of colour.
Isn’t it funny how the mind works when faced with adversity? A vast ice plain stretches out before me, behind me, to all sides and yet here I am debating where black and white stand in a colour wheel.
I repeat a litany “legs keep moving”, “don’t stop”, “legs keep moving”, each phrase torn from my frozen lips by the howling wind and shredded by the driving snow.
All this whiteness robs ones rationality, takes away sense of direction, I don’t know where I am, where I’m going or where I’ve been but what I do know for sure is that if I stop, I’m dead. Maybe I’m dead already. Maybe this is my hell for stealing my uncle’s Playboys; a total absence of all senses. I can’t feel my hands, my feet, I can’t see anything but white and I can’t hear anything except the howl of the wind. Even that is white.
“Don’t stop, keep walking.”
All this white reminds of strawberries, more specifically, the creamy vanilla ice-cream over which my mom would ladle spoonfuls of home-made strawberries jam, still warm from the canning process. I can almost smell the pot bubbling on the stove.
The jam would melt the ice-cream, if you don’t eat it fast enough, which I wouldn’t, making delicious, sweet pink slurry.
Man, my imagination is so strong I can actually see it…
No, that’s not strawberries. It can’t be. Strawberries are spooned on carefully, never sprayed on like this, plus, it’s the wrong colour. This red is a deep red, almost black, like… blood. It has to be blood! Someone has been here before me, but why can I still see them? It’s snowing so hard, the blood looks so fresh.
“Hello?!” My call sounds muffled. Could it be? I try to call again and the red splatters grow. It is my blood.
Why am I not moving? Why is my face pressed into the strawberries and ice-cream? No more, please mom, I’m so sleepy. Even the snow is tired of being so white all the time, it’s fading to grey, to black.