A perfect summer evening filled with the final songs of forest birds and the first night pleas of June frogs and August crickets. Storm clouds hug the Earth like a blanket kicked off by her lover's last farewell.
A Shakespearean night between storms. A "Gone With the Wind" overture.
Or perhaps more a night befitting Nikola Tesla—hair stands on end as electric potential buzzes and leaps. The storm ignites; my soul a conductor. Like an old sitcom episode I trip over myself. So fortunate, yet so forlorn.
What unbalances me?
The damned need to express—to capture perfect words, to blend perfect colors, to conjure up the poignancy of living. To untangle the stories of the slain innocents looking for a hero, of brave explorers falling to cancer, of the unsuspecting subjugated by greed, of youth climbing through the debris left behind, of parents writing the final chapter and no one listening, of promises forgotten and those remembered, of the faithful lover's embrace, the forgotten child's delight, the unexpected moment of understanding - and of clarity, the friendship that survives the fall... Hope. Faith. Refusal to let go.
This is the storm and this is the life. An imperfect storm unpredicted. A storm that refuses to quench parched fields . A storm that uproots majestic trees and unbeds rivers. A storm that fuels waterways and impregnates deltas, salts oceans and beats in renewal.
This is the storm of the soul. The artist's drive to create, to understand, to expose, to pick the scab and scratch the itch. To remember truths ignored but clenching the keys.
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