Well, not exactly ‘tomorrow’, but closer than a couple of weeks! Have I ever mentioned that I love spring? If not, I’d like to boldly say for the record, right this moment, that I LOVE SPRING! I think it’s the crisp, yet warm air; the…well, that about covers it. It’s new! It’s a breeze that doesn’t chill, an air that doesn’t freeze; nor is it a smothering heat or a withering sun. It’s free, it’s open, and I love it. Not exactly very descriptive, but some things you can’t really verbalize, much less grasp. That is, after all, the search of a writer: to express the inexpressible, to describe and put into words something that eludes the common man. That is why a good writer is treasured, even exalted: they capture what others can’t put into words. Take Dickens, for instance. He described 19th century England like no one could. He captured the working man on the streets, the struggle for life in an industrial London. He was a master at description, and we love him for it. Some of us try to attain it, even surpass it – but alas, most of work too little at our trade and let our hands grow weak from inactivity. And that is the point of this writing (of this blog, for those scant few who stumble upon it through the internet): to reforge the blade that was rusted and sundered, hoping that by some miracle even a portion of what once was might be recovered. “Help me, Lord. You’ve given me a gift, and I have squandered it. Forgive me, and help me as I till this hard ground.”
So, the word: excitement.
The sailor trudged long on the path, ever pushing deeper into the Waiting Wood. He stopped only twice to catch his breath, and while doing so he peered back the way he had come, but could see nothing, for the fog had swallowed all with a gray, dim shadow. Still there was no sound in the forest, beside the popping of wood and rustle of leaves. As he loped along the winding way he wondered at the emptiness of the wood, and it seemed to him that as he pushed further on and farther in that he passed from reality to a dream, a waking one in which all he heard was the sound of wind upon his ears the soft thud of his footsteps on the path.
Something flickered white ahead, just as the path curved hard to the right round a tight groves of saplings, and he sprang forward, bounding the last remaining steps to the corner and turning it sharply, his hands tingling with anticipation of beholding the Gray Lady and the Bundle.
But there was no one; only the path and the ever continuing undergrowth of rich green. Yet here the path ran differently, for now it lay straight as an arrow and grew wider, till several yards ahead, before passing through the thick branches of a high bush, it was wide enough for two men to walk comfortably abreast.
It was a high hedge that grew here at the end of the path, stretching far to the right and left into the foggy trees. The sailor noticed that the branches were swaying as if recently pushed aside, and as he stood quietly he began to hear the sound of open air and soft footsteps just on the other side of the hedge.
He licked his lips and flexed his hands. His breath rose and fell rapidly in his chest, and the thud of his heart was like the pounding of the surf as excitement ran like fire through his body. Then he moved forward and pushed his way through the hedge and out the other side.
Neat. My darn wrist! What’s the deal? I can’t type for longer than five minutes before my fingers kind of tingle…is it the laptop? Or just typing in general? This isn’t good. What does carpal tunnel feel like? (he asks as he keeps typing). Well, I want to work on Shadows, but I don’t know if I can. Maybe if I give my hands a rest. Or if I stop typing. Thanks again! It’s been fun. Till…next time. Which will hopefully be tomorrow. Cheers.