I had,in a daydream like, an encounter with an archdruid.
The poet said to me:
_Immagine it’s , like if it was a reconforting answer addressed to you personally, for having been waiting so long for the muse to speak to me. A silent plea I flung to Heaven, but a prayer, then it came just like that, on time, for when you waited long for the least, after having all time a reject_someone that’s telling you:
Your story isn’t calm.
The road has been chaotic at times,
Filed with detours, and rains,
and loss so sudden, and soon.
Sometimes the bliss was so elevated
Your heart could hardly hold it.
Sometimes it was maddening to have,
And then to lose it. You learn soon enough
that it is hardly ever goes as planned–
gently, easy and smooth.
But that my friend,
is what makes fascinating
You have something to tell.
Something you walked through.
You’re made of stories
Within stories, even
more stories. Those
quiet depths of you.
Before that,I was reading a blog of Longreads,about an interview with the author Katherine Heiny,
Taking-the-slow-road Then, I came accros a poem of Victoria Erickson on Pinterest, so I left my gaze wandering through the boards sometimes untill I got a glimpse of something burgeoning in my mind for quite some time later on, so to stay in the clime of thoughts, something that looks frutescent down the road, that’s with a kick you excuviat to the open, like a bird taking his first flight from wich it was nestled under.
So, I just wanted to give it a try, and see what happens…
If I was given a chance to visit a place, it would be the Pantheon, in Paris, there it’s where they sleep for the eternity, all the writers, the poets, artists, and all the admited accadimician personalities to that honorable degree of reconnaissance. But that place is to quite to hear their flights and joultes, so I just returned to my muse to get inspired.
Me, personally I wouldn’t imagine be writing stories, one day, I didn’t take it seriously. Perhaps as a vacation hobby mostly more or less, than a vocational occupation. Of all the trades, surely it was the easiest one to fail in, anyway. There was no further success in the future of being a writer on those times of old Alger.Back then, I preferred reading to writing, and “my violin of Ingres”_my passion, went for drawing, since the early childhood. And I read a lot of books, the amount that one can fill the shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, so you can imagine, and besides having at reach of my hand all the books you can read, people was more reader, and movies goers, the only TV program was black and white, and the broadcast was for more or less for five hours a day, and it started at 5/6 o’clock in the afternoon, and ended by the last newscasts at 10:30. Logically, that is was for the working class more than that for the élite or the bourgeoise class; the have salons and tea room, for playing bridge, and aristocratic activities, by snobbish to only sit and watch the TV. Than, after reading the poem of Victoria Erickson, “taking the slow road”, some decades later, and a few days lately, from reading I get enticed by writing little by little. I finally grabbed my courage, with both hands, and dodged it. It’s not that I’m afraid of writing or the criticism, but mostly by choice. And again, a maladive instinct for being ridiculous, since, some professionals activities were ill regarded Then. So, taking the risk, I said to myself, just sit down and gave it a try. I said to myself, see what happens, you have nothing to lose after all, just a few dollars, a lot of scribbles, blank pages, but then, if it doesn’t work, before tossing them away, make sure I haven’t thrown the baby–(you dream would be-writer) — with the waters of the bath.
Paolo Coscelo wrote the Alchemist, 13 years ago, a million books best-seller now. The story, it starts with a dream, so believe in your dream, that’s all.
The story started something like this; ” one day…”_ or one night?…I don’t remember, I have read the book 13 years ago, since then, you know. If you haven’t read the book:_ A shepherd fell asleep, he made a dream; an encounter with a strange character; the master of the world told, he told him something like, one has to make his one’s own history, or the sort. When he woke up, he found himself with a solemn urge for peregrinations, that he must pursue his dream in order to get rich ; if he want to be married one day to the girl he loves. He had to make a choice; if he stayed around and became a seller of popcorn with his a cart instead of conducting a herd to pastures, it’s more a respectable profession than a shepherd, and the father of the girl will look at him with more respect, he would travel also, not a lot, but he will see people, villages, and even could go to the city, but at the end of the day he would be back home to find the girl he love. She would be waiting for him, had cooked diner for him, they would sleep under the roof of a warm house, a small one for the beginning, then they will move to a bigger one, for that he need money, and while he was thinking about it, thence he fell asleep… His journey started in Spain, crossed the sea, Rabat where he got his job, then followed the caravans route across the Sahara desert and after a multitude of rellantendo, and peripeteias, he finally reached Fayum, an oasis in the south of Egypt, to finish in to a monastery, the end of the trip. Then, back home.
This a dream, it’s in a book, that came true. For a writer, it was the hit. A jackpot, to win the Lotto, for the common of us. What about yours; mine, it was…