(In celebration of the Amazing 7 days of StoryCrafting)
They started ..
almost like a flash-mob.
Random.. sudden
16 artists ..from all over the world ..
just came together
pulled by this deep soulful strain, that their hearts heard.
Each sitting as their own canvas.. shoes..pen.. cooking pot.. brush ..box..
Had reached ..a ..full-stop.
and waiting…
for Godot?? Was it?
Each knew, deep down.. that the dots continued..
But not in the same form..
The brush yearned for different strokes
The songs were screaming in the silences
The dried pen nibs, were bleeding
From Un-use…
And then the pen ..moved..
pushed. .pulled ..coaxed.. guided..
Tired of waiting…
Something’s got to give
The rasping.. scratching sound
when it finally started to move on the rough paper
was too much
It threatened to tear the page off..
Wherever it touched.
Sigh!! It had been too long
Both resisted..
the pen and the paper
they thought..
..each other.
But it was the distance music ..
that were drawn to and fighting against
The pen ..stopped ..many times
it was too much pressure…
nothing was coming …
Maybe everything is dried up..inside
He thought..
But he was still.. held somehow
Sometimes just the holding of the pen upright ..
makes the ink move
It helps to know some physics also, of course.
The pen.. wanted to give up ..many times..
He had memory of writing..drawing..
Being in the flow..
But he had begun to convince himself
That , that was somebody else ….
He ..he could not..
He was..JUST a pen.
And then slowly it started to happen..
A little drop of ink came on the paper..
The pen was a bit startled..
The red drop again the pristine white was ..stark.
It felt like his blood..and sweat all mixed
He drank in it…it was like an oasis..
He did not realise how thirsty he was..
And then as it got some energy,
he began to move
At first they were squiggly lines.. random motions
He would start ..stop.. start..move to a different spot of the page..
And yet.. courageously ..
vulnerably he stayed on the page
Looking at the mess..
Meaningless
And still..he stayed
Staying ..Still.
Listening to the music
And ever so slowly.. the random lines began to take shape and form..
and started to move
And the pen..
found its rhythm…
Words ..and pictures came out and filled the page..
He wrote …
About himself.. others.. the trees..mountains…stones… boxes..
and pinballs.. graves.. tables.. music.. tears.. donkeys
and fairies .. stories .. butterflies…
and angels.. and God.
He just wrote…
And the paper rejoiced…
Both could now hear the music more distinctly..
It was like a symphony..
In the moments..
The pen - the ink – the paper – the characters…
ALL became one..
The bolero..took a life of it own ..now
No one knew where one ended and the other began…
And as it ..slowly ebbed..
All the souls were soulified..
And ..in a Grand grateful gesture..
They all ..
Took the bow.
_ Rhea
