Miscellany

Spiritof the Hour

A silly idea of Betty's, but best to say nothing. Putting down empty cups, brushing off crumbs, we drift away.

Out in the garden trees lean closer, nodding wisely. Friends and strangers circle the empty pond, two by two. The air fills up with words, stroked to deeper meaning by a friend's ritual gesture. The house stands by, solid and agreeable. In its spaces are hoarded pockets of silence that allow expansion.

During a fallow period there may be no acknowledgement of the harvest planned for. What seeds are here for planting? What little growths hint obliquely at a flowering?

In the games room, a ping-pong ball is bounced fiercely to and fro. Pausing in the doorway, a passer-by could make a meaning out of such hot exchanges tempered by rule and laughter. No winners. Only a shared desire to reach some agreed standard.

Many of us are writing now. Even while we deny it, the impulse is there to perform the set task, explain ourselves, explore a circumstance.

Beyond the grey stone floor of the hall elaborate tiles rebuke the plainness, scorn rag-rug disguises. Up above are rooms I don't know, rooms not yet explored. Some these you have broached and entered. Overhead, too, is the light-well; put there to encourage access to the heavens and shed a gleam on dark places.

I do not know these rooms. I do not know this building's history. I do not know what is locked away inside these other, human shapes that move and signal. Are they choosing words to tell a story or hide a story? Will it be private and individual, or spread itself out to become, from one building, a town, a nation, a world newly-made?

From the shrubbery, the bickering of two in opposition sends out a ripple of disquiet that touches us all. On the path, expert and novice attempt to fuse explanation, understanding.

Church bells ring out a measured peal. But there is no bird-song, although these cloudy dimensions were meant to be tested by the sweep of wing, safely tied at the corners by phrase and rhythm. Footsteps, light and hurried, echo down a shadowy corridor. We are returning, counted in and reckoned. The door stands open. We turn expectantly, as it moves, widens.

A silly idea of Betty's, we all agree. So why do we await an entry? Who will be first to introduce the spirit of the hour?


Note:
This piece was done as workshop writing on a theme set by the tutor: Spirit of the Hour, which was taken as the Muse.

Labels: creative writing, creativity, writing workshops

posted by Jenny Argante @ 5:55 PM