The Perfect Wor[l]d - 13
My notes say: write about Ray Bradbury and on his imagination, how his ideas came about: in the middle of the night where a locomotive could turn into a journey of Death, or a circus coming to town, and magicians, and vanishing elephants. Do I have that kind of imagination? What do I hear in the middle of the night? Is there anything I can connect with?
Is there magic in my life?
Not enough? Funny, I misspelt and looked like enoughty… e-naughty… I naughty girl! I like the idea of magic and wonder and strong emotions and peculiar objects, and interesting people, and made-up languages and countries, and places. All far away from here. Can I follow the sun? Or be spontaneous? Or learn to speak the language of birds, of sparrows; and the language of dragons and the language of whales!
What if I looked at people and exaggerated in my mind some of their features and turned them into characters, into archetypes and then use them? The girl with coloured hair on the train, who always smiles, she could be a good witch, a happy witch. Old uncle F. could be the old sage who always tells good stories. The chap here serving me my flat white could be a knight, with his long hair in a ponytail, a short beard, and tattoos and maybe he fought in a land far away and has seen things no one has ever seen. And then there is a pixie whose name is Trixie and she is an old wise woman trapped in the body of a young girl and she corrects everyone around her while ballet dancing.
It is not true that I don’t have imagination; it is that I never had the time nor the inclination to see things through the eyes of wonder. Black clouds now, covering the sky, sliding above us, here. They are like slate sheets summoned to create a stage where then the great Whale will come to talk to us and tell us of the Big Battle that is being fought beyond the borders and where the good powers are in danger of being overthrown. We will need the help of anyone to win! Otherwise, we will not survive: we are fighting to win. So, the woman with olive skin and smelling of sandalwood and whose voice rolls softly and her shoes are full of sand, she will fight, too. The woman whose dresses are always so coloured as sails as she floats instead of walking, she will fight, too. The woman whose back is so large that she can carry all the children of the town, she will fight, too. All the women of this world, with red hair, and blonde hair, and black hair and coloured hair, they will all fight. All the women of the world will fight together to help the Great Whale. And my JouJou, covered in wool, will ride her dragon, surrounded by sparrows, and she will protect the Great Whale. She promised that she will always tell this story, to anyone, because this is going to be a great story. The story of Escentéa, the street of Angels, of Whinny Heights where only tall and thin people live, of planting flowers and encouraging melodies, of places where you can smell bread and baked heaven all day, where the hills are just mills in disguise…
[This has been just the beginning. Some things changed for me after this post.
Still, I kept on writing]
© mtomat 2019 - written on 10.07.19 - no reproduction without permission.
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