Last night, I was a man, a man who writes. This dream-me typed an evocative, moving,
derisive, poem that made the woman-dream-me reading the printed words feel
everything. I could see the well-worn, wood and rattan rocking chair sitting empty
on the front porch of the antiquated country store. I could smell the swampish damp,
watch the moss swing gray like tattered blankets clothes-pinned to nearby branches,
knew I was somewhere South, closer to the equator.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez died yesterday. Marquez of Love in the Time of Cholera and
One Hundred Years of Solitude, the author who wove magic on pages, making us feel obsessive
passion, despair, confusion, love, pain, loss, who made our pitiful humanness, our
well-intentioned but tragic failings, art.
Did he visit us, as would be but right? Did he slip mto our dreams, those who have loved
his words, those who cannot help but try to tell the stories? Did he come to whisper
in our sleeping ears, take courage, persist, stumble, fall even, bur write on, love on
despite the futility and impermanence, let passion and pain instruct and guide?
Did he entreat us to not stop, let the words out?
Trust the page. Trust your hands. Trust your heart.
NaPoWriMo Day 18