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Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Monday, June 14, 2010

My Fantasy

I've always had this dream, and it absolutely kills me to admit it; but something about the time and the weather have driven me to putting this into words. perhaps it's so I'll explore the probability of such occurrences happening, or simply to grapple with an emotion sparked by a simpleton's remark under a white tent at a book sale. maybe by putting this out into the open I'll somehow admit the unlikeliness of this even ever happening; or the presence of this writing will put into motion the necessary steps to fulfilling this wild fantasy that's been with me since before I can remember. The image changes with age and location but the actual plot is always the same. I await its presence in my life, even though it may never come to fruition.

Today: a gloomy, dreary day wrought with rain and soggy earth. It's the beginning of the summer in beautiful Colorado and it feels more like an early Northwestern spring than anything else. Being summer has great significance to me: event after event to fill my life in between semesters. At least it all keeps me off my computer and away from the couch. Today is the final day of the Denver Public Library Book Sale: a mecca of cheap books piled upon tables. Treasures so glorious I can barely accept the pure joy I feel at the sight of attainable wealth.

With the rain, a surprising number of bargain book hunters have arrived on this odd Sunday morning. Not even thirty adults are within the protective tents filled with books. Normally more than a hundred individuals are seen with boxes and bags and handfuls of books, nearly endlessly searching for that piece of gold they might miss which may be jammed between nonsense. My journey through the white haven for literature enthusiasts has been on for about an hour when I hear suddenly:

"I read one of her books and it was phenomenal, and everyone I know said she was a horrible writer and I just didn't understand how they could think that, so I read another one of her books and suddenly understood why. She really had a miracle in that one book and should have stopped there!"

Something in my head clicked and I became very self-conscious and the dream popped into my head. My very first worry was: "Am I going to end up like that? One great book and the rest suitable for bonfires?" My joy was shot and I needed to escape the gloomy, cramped, filthy tent, get away from the rain, leave civilization and think!

Again the fantasy sparked in my mind, and it seems so simple to me. I am anywhere: at work, in a park, at home, it doesn't really matter where I am. Randomly, a very attractive person approaches me. Most of the time this individual is a man and his features change with each re-envisioning; and sometimes it's a woman with very ethereal qualities. Regardless, he's a stranger to me, but something about his presence is intriguing. Something beyond his beauty or handsomeness which calls to my soul or heart.

Then he speaks as we're looking eye to eye: "Hello Josh."

I'm always amazed that this person knows who I am, that someone with which I know to have never had a previous encounter would know who I am. "How do you know my name?"

And he says, very seriously: "You're a very important person."

What happens next always changes. When I was younger and lived in a dream world from which I stole 90% of my material for my work, this statement of importance meant I had a quality that no other living person had. For a while it meant I had magical powers that could save the world, or that somehow my body had a chemical in it that could manufacture cures for every ailment known to humanity. As I matured and began to understand the physical needs, this statement turned into a call for love. It didn't hurt that the person I envisioned was attractive either, because we would always fall in love and head into paradise... This theme would resurface every time I had relationship issues. Regardless of the message behind how I was an "important person," the feeling that someone out there knew who I was, knew me for what I could be, who I could be, what I could do, was thrilling and inviting and magnificent.

Now, with this woman's statement about an author she might not have understood, an author who might have written on a different reading level than her or her friends could comprehend, created the next evolution of this fantasy. This time, when the person before me says "You're a very important person" it has the feeling of social responsibility and possibility. That my words have or are affecting the outcome of change in civilization. That my words are educating people on a different level than school or work or simple experience. That the love behind the statement and the eye contact and the attractiveness is more for my ability to write beautifully, to make illusions in magical and mystical ways, and to touch another's soul without ever meeting them...

This is what I want of my work... This is what I want of my life. Authors have moved me to tears, have inspired me to be something more than I am, have taken me away from my life and put me in a place so real and wonderful that I didn't want to return to this world. I want to affect people like that. I want to give hope and beauty and love and imagination to generations to come. This is why I write. This is why I want to teach. This is why I want to lead humanity to the stars (both actually and metaphorically).

And maybe by doing these things some stranger will really step up to me and say my name and tell me how very important I am.

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