Wandering: Graffiti

Posted: August 5, 2016 in Wandering

Graffiti has always fascinated me. At train crossings, waiting for endless boxcars to pass, I used to see the most beautiful creations of art. There’s a lot of time to think while sitting in the car. I wondered about the artists who were skilled enough to paint such amazing collages on rusty metal, old metal, new metal, and what sort of lives they led. I could imagine them painting in the dark by flashlight, since obviously this would not knowingly be allowed in daylight. It took me to another world. And then the train ended with the reds, blues, and neon colors gone in a blur.

Recently, on my wandering and hiking in the mountains, I came upon a one lane tunnel in South Carolina. Mesmerized, I saw graffiti in a backwoods town where time moves slow and slower. Maybe the artists were young, old, or just wandering like I was. They could have thought they had all the time in the world to create, be young, be old, live forever. As the quote goes: “In the midst of life we are living; in the midst of life we are dying.” It’s the in-between that we live. Nevertheless, graffiti is a salvation to some and its electric colors splash light into a confusing world.

 

With folded hands she sat at the table, the one facing the lush woods pressed against the landscape like it had been painted in place. Sleep had not touched her eyes for two days, since that man in the deputy’s uniform suit had knocked on her door, removed his hat, and said the terrible words that had never crossed her mind. It was his job and she wondered if he slept at night.

Butterflies flew against the window and some were smashed on impact to flee the sunlight, some did not and she wondered at the cessation of life and why such beautiful creatures of nature would do such an unremarkable thing to cease life. She’s sat in the one cane-back chair for a long while now and didn’t know what to do next. A lady at the church called and told her to pray and everything would be all right, in time.

She pushed her graying hair back in a bun and tied it close to the back of her neck with a rubber band. All in a coil-like roll, twisted like. She felt old; she was old. Her hands were wrinkled with brown spots, from working in the garden, and veins scattered the tops and sides of the skin. She turned over her hands and stared at them as if seeing them for the first time.

“Liddy,” a male voice called from the porch affronting the lake. “Are you in there? It’s nigh to sunset and you need to go lie down before too long, you’ll need rest.”

She turned and rushed to the door and unlatched the key, slow as if her feet were weighted to the floor. The door finally swung open. “Is that you? Don’t stay in the shadows, let me see you.”

The weathered boards creaked under weight and she searched with her eyes for an image, any image that would tell her she wasn’t mad. No one was there and she was alone with the whippoorwills that usually came to sing to her before dark. Never, in her recollections had she known them to sing in the daylight, always twilight. She shook her head this way and that searching for anything that would tell her the voice was not imagined.”I hear cemetery birds not whippoorwills; they heed not the time of day.”

After silence, her head nodded and she went to the screen door and looked to the lake and back to the porch. Slow steps dragged her feet toward the bedroom, she kicked off her house shoes and lay on the simple, double bed in the small, plain room void of pictures. An old black telephone startled her and she reached to the night table and unplugged it.
She caught a scent of Old Spice Cologne and relaxed as she saw the indented feather pillow opposite hers. Her face was flushed, as she hugged the edges of the pillowcase. Hair askew,she breathed in life and closed her eyes. “You’re right, I’ll need rest,” she whispered. The officer was wrong. “Goodnight, you’re here with me.”

 

Image  —  Posted: May 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

Reality

Posted: January 29, 2017 in Uncategorized

Reality refreshes itself…
It is in the gloaming
Truth & brilliance
Oft times
Make themselves known
Tired & restless
Ere the sun appears
Upon the new day:
Reflex backward
@sharpwyn

Life: For the Love of Family

Posted: November 18, 2016 in life

This is a free-write non-fiction.

The first dish I ever learned to kinda cook, as a teenager, was home made biscuits. The kitchen was a disaster with flour everywhere: the floor, ceiling, mine and Mother’s faces. No space was left untouched by white unsifted, then sifted, flour from a humongous can that sat on the kitchen floor near the stove. Mother stood there and told me that I didn’t belong in a kitchen, that it would take too long to clean it all up.
So…at the dinner table that evening, my family were assembled around the square, antique-finished dining table talking about our day and eating. Nobody was touching my biscuits. (Guess not, when the biscuits were hard enough to knock a person out if you tossed one on the mark. Also known as “hard as a brick bat.”) My feelings were getting hurt and I spoke up and asked if anyone had tried my biscuits. Silent, scared and uncertain looks from one to the other circulated!
Bless his heart, Danny, my younger brother grabbed one biscuit and started taking bites. He would pause and look around the table after every bite and reach for the tea glass. Finally, he spoke and said he loved my biscuits and urged the rest of my family to try them. Sure enough, Daddy and Larry played along, knowing the biscuits were hard as a rock. Mother declined. ūüôā
Gosh, that’s a memory of love, I think. After dinner, the remaining biscuits went promptly to the chicken yard. I sure felt sorry for those chickens, but so proud my family would eat my biscuits just to spare my feelings. I never cooked biscuits from scratch like that, again.
My Grandma Dickey’s biscuits were perfectly round every time and always had white tops–delicious. Mother’s biscuits were brown and soft on the inside. Both could cook anything so well with hardly anything to work with, at times.
I can honestly say that the one good thing I can cook is chicken and dressing–that’s one dish explained for those who cook dressing without ¬†boiled chicken bits in it. Mother said she liked mine better than hers. She really meant that. Gosh I miss my family so much. It is more so around Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. The comfort and emotional support they gave me was always, always, always so very much heartfelt and appreciated. I never took their love for me for granted, not for one second.

Life: Vociferate

Posted: November 7, 2016 in Uncategorized

Its so painful to leave home; it is my heart and soul that keeps me alive. No words can possibly nail it to the wall. I’m damned if I go and testing myself if I stay. I never thought much of tests; then again the entirety of our fate is always rocking us, to succeed, to fall, to fail, to fluctuate, to tether on that tightrope–balancing and leaving pain in its wake. My heart breaks tenfold. Damned if you do and damned if you do not.

[I’m not posting to ask for money like so many do, here. Asking for others to donate to publish your writing, asking for money because you do not work, asking for money for any reason that only you will benefit from. IMO, that is cowardly and lame, taking from others. Pathetic. I see that all the time and why people beg on here, for money, is beyond me. Simple: if you cannot afford to pay for this site then go to Google-free. ]

Back to my main paragraph–my real home, at this moment. And I would also like to say to the bitch that is the problem, “Go to hell with your husband who is a leach and lies like you do!” You have made my family’s life hell by interfering, taking, taking, taking from us and conniving to keep us here taking advantage of vulnerability. You pretend to be Christian and that is a lie in itself. One day you will see me at your front door and you better keep it locked. Some people have limits and you pushed mine.

Posted: October 21, 2016 in life, roots, Wandering

Life: Journey Unknown


This morning, I looked at those two flags as I ran three miles at the track. Those miles gave me time to contemplate why I am still on the coast when it’s long since been time to go home.

Several years ago I drove 800 miles of partial backwoods and semi-finished interstates in the mountains from my roots of Mississippi and Tennessee. I was a reluctant twenty-four-year-old Rebel, and landed on the East Coast. Honestly, I had grieved and cried every mile marker. I was leaving my humongous family who were usually related to most residents of the county via my maternal grandpa. Sounds like hesitant relocation–it felt forced. I am taking about my life, my heart and soul, family, employment and friends from childhood and high school–In other words, my support system ripped away. A support system that makes it imperative to thrive, to succeed!

Fast forward to the present. Over time; I knew I’d move back; it was inevitable. Now, I am at that crossroads with questions. I may never know why a power stronger than life itself brought me here to this location. Although; I did manage over five years of college, two degrees, and a son that I fought to bring into this world. Accomplishments yes, willingly–but I wanted more after college and was denied the vocation of teaching teens, even being a teacher’s aide because of reasons unknown. Maybe I was educated enough, but always met with excuses from high school and middle school officials where I applied. This was another crush of the heart from a writer who was qualified, to be sure. Perhaps, I didn’t know the right people, far be it from me to know why I was denied. Some never even sent letters of rejection ¬†to hire while I waited and called. Endeavors were met with silence and no answers. Good health, good education, but rejections.

When shattered like that by incompetent fools in charge, what came next? ¬†I couldn’t stop living. I did what my roots and growing up with brothers prepared me for: photographing and writing about nature and sometimes imagination that wandering brings; including, but not limited to: climbing down into creek beds ¬†and crawling into caves that could have taken my life, but I had no fear. It’s that attribute that saved me.

“Some” have said I have nine lives, since I’ve had many brushes with death since childhood, but wandering backroads and unknown territory, (to me) and recording it, and occasionally publishing in small town newspapers became enough. It had to be, for there was nothing else for me after five years of college and an innate sense of art to go with creative writing, and communication. Wandering didn’t pay much, sometimes it brought only recognition of being published and nothing more, but I did enjoy myself and still do. I was and still am so tempted to go back to college for more education. Maybe it takes more to be accepted to teach in any manner. That craving never left. Instead, I went where life took me–road trips far, long, and sometimes treacherous.

Nevertheless; I come to the present–the crossroads I envisioned will surely take me home. [That is to say, after I find someone to set my hardwood kitchen flooring ¬†and placing the house on the market.]

In retrospect; thank God, I clung to roots of childhood friends; I must have been pretty annoying, albeit loyal in the process, for they are still there. As an afterthought; someday, I may learn why I didn’t get to those crossroads or home sooner, and why I came to be here to be rejected, because my heart never left Tennessee and never will, no matter where my body is.

Poetry: Wilderness Abyss

Posted: May 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

Into an abyss you crawled
Unfamiliar with the lay of the land.
Fingertips nil and
Skin void of flesh; warm blood
Trickled along
Clam shards on a wall of stench.
As you search for light
That doesn’t exist-you hesitate.
Not a good idea at the time
Too late, for the ledge you stand on
begins to crumble and all you
see is water and rocks below
you chose the wrong morning
to check out the new trail
where the flowers you had
to have were located.
wynsharp©2016