You have entered the realm of a writer.

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

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Beautiful Reverie

Awaking to a world of illusion:

The sky shimmers to the cadence of hearts: beating in, beating out. The rhythmic procession shatters the gentle clouds hanging below the fading lightness. The sun hangs ominously bright at zenith, the moon lithely winks in the eastern darkness. A shimmerfly dances in between the two celestial bodies.

Its wings flitter with the light, spiraling in and out of existence with the waves of light. Purple glimmers and green sparkles appear for the merest of seconds before leaving sight, but the shimmerfly's body hovers peacefully in the sky, gazing down at the empty grasses waving in the zephyr.

The stalks have faded to brown in the dryness of the fall, matching the mood of the air as it mystically swishes through the reeds and sings in a hushed whisper. The words feel familiar, but they don't say anything coherent to languages still spoken. It's a wise tongue, a harsh dialect, and a hidden language, however lost to time and the races. As I listen to the swaying I hear the familiarity and try piecing it together, attempt feeling out the lost words, but my ear keeps me away from the truth.

A hawk squawks nearby, hidden in the shade of the forest trees that rose without notice.

A dog barks down the hallway.

Awaken to the world of truth?


  1. I like this! Maybe even love- but I'm not sure yet. I must admit that I'm not entirely sure what it means because I don't have all my literary smarts yet. It makes me feel the way Walt Whitman does- I know all the words, but I don't *quite* get it the way I think most people do.

    Why do I like it? The words. UNLIKE Whitman, who chooses words that make my stomach turn a little, you use words that make it flutter a little (Zenith? I LOVE it!!)
    Normally my response to use of obscure words is "they are obscure for a reason, Asshat."
    But in this case, without them I would just be kind of lost. Picture me standing in a library, limply holding an open book in my hand, crying a little and sweating a lot. That's me with brainy literature and nothing I get about it.

    (I'm talking to YOU T.S. Elliot.)

    All in all I say a) good job and b) will you please hold my hand and walk me through a little?

  2. YAY! I certainly will help walk you through this. First, I must say that when I wrote this I was literally letting my mind simply place words in front of me, so it's practically all subconscious ramblings. But they do have meaning, so lets start there!!!

    The opening line is meant to place the reader/audience into a sense that this is not real. It is illusion. The meanings are hidden within the words and symbols. You totally understood that (believe)! But we don't pay much attention to the shimmerfly. It's existence is to draw us from the sky to the ground.

    And in that simple act, the dreams of the sky are drawn to the ground where they are touchable, holdable, moldable. But they have a hard time being described. That's the language, the air, the breath of warmth coming from the east (symbolic of rebirth). And these words rush through death. This passage is where the intrinsic meaning of my mind is coming out. What it's saying is I feel all dried up, like my imagination has been spent and I'm coming upon a winter of imagination. I hear the words whistling through my mind, but I can't grasp what they're saying. I see the images brought down to my level, but I can't put them into the words. Thus, the language of imagination is lost to me.

    Then enters the hunter: the hawk. It's resting in the shade of a forest (which has always represented abundance, fertility, beauty, and creativity for me). That creativity was born without my knowledge, as I stared into the autumnal fields of despair (because of the lack of imagination, so to speak).

    And then reality calls me back. Reality that, as I've written about before, feels more unreal than imagination. Hence the last two lines.

    Essentially, this piece feels like a call to imagination and how it can be sparked without notice, even when the seasons change and death descends upon everything.

    Does that help a little?

    And then we get into the illusion. It's about dreams, aspirations: hearts beating, illuminating what follows; and by allowing these hopes to permeate the view, they dissipate the shrouds obscuring the ultimate limits of those dreams. The sky is the limit, to be cliche. Once the sky is viewable, we can see the strangeness of the world where the aspirations live. The sun is out at noontime. The moon is rising in darkness along the horizon; a darkness at noon. Even beyond this easily accessible oddity of light and dark during the day, a strange being hangs in the balance of night and day.

    The shimmerfly, who's only visible because its body is permanent while its wings are shifting in and out of the visible light spectrum, represents the imagination inherent to such fantastical landscapes.