I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

The Ant Story

Roselle Park, NJ, 1957.

Sitting next to a cinder-block wall which was painted white I watched as a big black ant struggled to carry a leaf twice its size. He labored up half a block, walked horizontally along the grout line, and then slowly tried to continue his vertical climb. Each time he just sort of wandered back down to the grout line and did what I interpreted as rested and then he tried and tried again. Finally I reached over and grasped the tiny leaf piece and tugged. He let go and immediately climbed the stark face of the wall. Just as he reached the top I placed the leaf in front of him, he took hold and carried it up over the lip of the wall all on his own.

Some folks would have watched him attempt the impossible and moved on, some would have never noticed and walked away as if nothing was happening around them, and some would have smashed the little bugger without a thought.  

When our almost impossible dream, struggle, quest, or whatever-it-is, is mirrored in the expectant eyes of someone else it’s hard not to put them out of their misery with the truth.
I don’t do that anymore because...well just because.

1 comment:

  1. Well, just because...you never know what goes on behind the curtain.