Lofty Work: Distillation

A genie has granted my wish to build my perfect space for
reading and writing. Would you like to see what’s it like? 

Physically, it begins, of course, with books. Loads and loads of books are in my perfect space for reading and writing. But before the physical, some other areas must be attended to. Relaxing, stimulating ambiance, the silence of the place is paramount. Because without silence there is no true thought, I profess…. Distractions minimized in the hope that focus or apprehension of some of the chaos might occur in that setting.  

With all that peace around, there would have to outlets too in which I could, necessarily reach my hands up, palms open to harvest chaos, inspirational chaos so that I can begin my true work – that of distillation. Grabbing a handful of chaos heating it up to a boil and then catching the condensed droplets of purified story elements in such a manner that they have now the ability to give a reader a glimpse into the chaos of being human without burning their eyeballs out. The heroes of the day are none more than shields against the burning chaos, no?  

Creating a silent, chaos-apprehending ambiance is a behemoth design project and not to be glibly or halfheartedly taken on. It is lofty work you see. As lofty one could argue as the rector’s fervent preparation for next week’s sermon. For we too as writers and readers are dealing in that highest form of art and craft and science and math: that of transcendental message reception and conveyance. What else would you call the brash but deliberate up-thrusting of outstretched palms to grasp untamed yet to be distilled universal metadata called chaos in an attempt to communicate profundity in a well-seasoned journeyman's words? 
I write

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Keeping Up with the Jones'

 They tell you not to compare. Do not measure your life against the neighbor’s. Do not chase the illusion of status. Wise words. And mostly ignored by anyone with a pulse. But the one luxury I dream of is not a shiny car or a gadget that glows in the dark. I want land. And a home rooted in that land. A mansion, yes, because why lie about the scale of the vision? Something built to last. Something that cannot be folded into a suitcase or lost the moment a visa expires. Picture this. A wide stretch of earth that belongs to my family name. Soil that remembers the footsteps of children now grown. Trees that rise taller long after I am gone. A house with a high roof and windows that pull in the morning sun instead of shutting it out. A library filled with the books I wrote and the ones that wrote me. A workshop where tools rest not in transit cases but on familiar walls. A kitchen where laughter outnumbers plates. A long table where every seat has a story, and none are borrowed. A pl...
Read more

Humble Pie

 We all have a private accounting system. You put in effort. You expect return. You sacrifice now. You imagine reward later. Neat math. Encouraging math. Math that makes you feel in control. For a long time, I thought I understood that math. I believed that twenty five years working abroad in the Middle East, away from family roots and Canadian soil, would translate into financial freedom. I imagined coming home with savings stacked, investments humming, and a calm sense that the future was covered. Then the bill came due. It turns out life charges interest on distance. On risk. On uncertainty. On raising kids in a country where family safety costs more than anyone back home could ever imagine. On working for companies that benefit from your best years but forget your name the moment the contract ends. And suddenly the numbers did not add up. I found myself staring at a truth harder than I liked. All that time. All that sweat. All that faith in a system. And I was not wealthy....
Read more

Now You See Me

 If I could appear and disappear at will, I would not waste the ability doing parlor tricks or sneaking into bank vaults. I know what it is like to be needed in a moment that decides everything. I know what it feels like to wish I could vanish from a moment that hurts. So here is how I would use my superpower. When my son faced his first night behind a locked door, I would appear beside him. Not to break him out. Not to bend justice. Just to sit. To tell him the walls were temporary and the world outside was still waiting for him. Fathers cannot always fix, but we can always remain. And when the decision came down from a judge with more power over my family than any human should have, I would disappear into my own calm, just long enough not to let fear speak for me. I would appear in the homes of every hiring manager who tossed my résumé aside after fifteen years of loyalty evaporated with the word “redundant.” I would stand right in front of them until they could not ignore my...
Read more