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THE WOODS by Tim Young Out in the woods. I feel like I have been out in the woods. Trampling over the broken sticks and dead leaves. Above my head the sky turns from blue to grey and then an unrecognizable color. The wind is stiff. If I was wearing a hat it would have long ago been blown far away. I am fortunate that it is not raining. My flimsy t-shirt would be soaked in a second and the rain water cooling on my skin would make me shiver. But it is dry. I am not in the woods. Some might say the city is the woods. It is complex like the woods in that it is not always a simple task to find one's way home; even though the 'paths' are so well trodden. It is simple to make a wrong turn. Some might say inside the head is the woods. I might say that. Crunching on brain cells. Refusing to light the lights. Stumble in the dark. Branches, long and scratchy tearing at my insides. Bumping into long dead trails left by aspirin. Headaches on the rocks. Strange scent of chemicals lost and undisturbed for decades. Drifting. What breeze, what air are in there? Stumps dug up to clear the land for new dwellings but no dwellings ever constructed. How fertile is the landscape? Looks may deceive. How certain is it anyway that anything has a look that is recognizable? Right. Because nothing may be real. Real enough but not real like one would assume real is. Real is. Real is. Real is. The real deal. Look deep into the well of creativity. Throw a stone in the well and wait until the splash is heard from when the stone smashes into the water. Is there water in the well of creativity? Will I ever be able to hear a splash? What I need is to fill my cup with some of that water if there is indeed water in that well to be had. Something to wet this parched throat. Parched brain. How dry I am. And the damn language. The language is a barrier. A block. It must be destroyed. It must be put back again but it must be destroyed. The language bomb. A unique weapon able to create and destroy simultaneously. No waiting. All is nothing and all is complete. Let's make it an app and put it on the ipad. Someone will create the language bomb icon. The world will soon behold an instant recognition. A 'Bombs Away' button. But don't ever tell me to take out the garbage. It's a chore that I am capable of knowing the exact time to do it. It never gets old. I rarely get old but different things do kick in. And those are the things that I will choose to not remember. I don't recall. I don't recall getting older. That's a fact. Nothing could be closer to the truth. I am closer to the truth at this very moment because I don't recall growing older. That's correct. And now a brief discussion of time. Time. It is and it isn't. But mostly it is now. It is now. That's why it isn't even important to recall. It's only a familiar path that leads down, down, down to nowhere. Good luck finding the key to that place. Don't go there. Those doors may possess a comfortable look but behind them is dead air. In radio lingo that means silence and that is exactly correct. The silence of, well, past silence. If there is anything good to come of it it is because it's an example of a perfect silence. Almost a vacuum but not quite. But an absence of time and sound. Don't look back unless there is a certain danger that could be avoided by doing so. Only then is one required to look back. So at the end of the day it's another day. Not long, not short but another. A blessing and a curse that any movement is detected at all. My thought is that it's a drag. Dragging one's self through the eternal muck. Eternally. Just in case I wasn't clear. In the mean time I am walking over to the window and pushing the damn thing all the way open. It's almost startling to feel the force of the breeze rush through the screen and wash my face. It helps me to understand the word refreshment in a new way. I'm going to wake up now. Shake, shake, shake the woods out of my head. ©2010

One way to break through writing block is to get out in The Woods.

Posted via web from Tim's posterous