The DreamWeaver, Bliss, and the Samurai

The DreamWeaver asked me, when I showed him ‘The Key‘, “Is this going to give me a window into your soul?” I replied, “More like double French doors.” I remember Bliss, several years before that. She was the first person who called me selfish for hiding what I write. It was shortly after 9/11, when I’d written ‘Question for the day‘, an admittedly delightful little bitchy rant. She said no one who wrote like I did had any business hiding it, and that to do so was nothing more than being selfish. She was the one who made me think. I still remember the first person I showed “Hope” to. It was one of the first I’d published, after I began learning web design, for the express purpose of self-publishing. He said he couldn’t talk for awhile, because there was a lump in his throat, and then asked me, “How do you know how to write exactly what I am feeling, when I could never have told you that I was feeling it?”

There are few who remember DreamWeaver, and his crisp British accent. Fewer who have known me from so many years past, and before. And I’ll never be able to hear “Ya minging minger!” without hearing in my memory, Bliss’ thick, barely intelligible Scottish brogue. And I remember a man who should have been born a Samurai, in a time when honor, tradition, detail meant everything, even above death.

The only publishing I have ever done has been on my own website, my social media pages, places I can put my own name to it and rightfully, legally, call it mine own. I’m okay with a little attention, in small doses, never a lot. Too much overwhelms me and I shut down. But there is still a need to touch, even in the mind, the soul of another. To know that there is a living being in the universe with whom I can connect on some level beyond the mere accident of birth, or the mundane limitations in this physical life. This is my art; to paint pictures in someone’s mind with my words. To imprint an indelible photograph that evokes some spark of emotion; that is the driving goal of every artist from time immemorial. Tomorrow I will be the turtle again.

But tonight, in my memory, the French doors are wide open again, and I remember…

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