Sweet Nova And Therapeutic Spirit.

I.  Therapeutic Spirit At The Park

Hey, People and Poets!
   Today was quite an interesting day. I spent the day in the lovely company of a friend to whose therapeutic way of life, enlightening spirit, and transcending energy I have lately grown to be subdued. We had brunch together, then went for a salubrious stroll through the wondrous and amazing sights of Washington Square Park. ——While there, we imposed upon scenes of creative measures, of musicians, and gamers, and other forms of

  While we were in the park, I stumbled upon a rather authentic display of art, by two individuals, one of them was quite occupied with a paint coated brush and a canvas. The other artist had her head berried in the pages of a book. I approached her on first thought, and greeted her, only to realize that she was, in fact, a fellow poet whose profound poetry I have had the privilege of witnessing at a local poetry club.

   While in the park, I conversed with this painter and fellow poet, and it wasn’t long after, that  I was awakened to the undeniably truth of her transparency and her dedication to her passion that became an extension of not just her surrounding, but everybody else’s. Her vulnerable, yet abstract display of art became a magnet to people who were passing by, some of whom made inquiries about selections, gave reviews or their interpretations, and some even were bold enough to  question her motive, and even more bold, to withdraw from the vastness of bravery that fueled her reason for being or initial appearance in the park.

   Among other elegant selections of her portraits and paintings, there were two that stuck out to me predominantly. The first was, as I had interpreted it, an intricate stroke that continued into the silhouette of a man and a woman whose lips collided into a spectrum of emotions, reflective, as evidence by the strokes of paint that bellowed on her cheeks like trickling waters from a fountain. This piece also had an inscription that reads:

“Had me in your arms, who knew love could travel so far. It leads me back to you.”

   The second piece was, as I had also interpreted it: An idea, seemingly not yet manifested. Or perhaps intently orchestrated upon a loose leaf, merely to note something more immense than I was able to grasp. Or perhaps it simply meant more to me than she had intended for it to.  In description, I would say it was a hued shadow that somewhat subsided or was receding from a  vibrant background of colors, around which words, phrases, and symbols danced. One of the inscriptions was:

“Become a fabric of your passion”

Which has resonated with me ever since I first laid my eyes on it.

  As I construct this blog, I am brought to thorough conviction because I am befuddled by this very thought, even more so as a creative individual. It remains indelible that I feel justified in my presumption to validate someone else’s work. What credentials do I have to even think it is my place to validate something created by someone.    —— Isn’t it interesting how we think we have the right to unjustly interpret someone else’s idea, and even presume to attach our own ideas of what we think it is, or was intended to be. Or maybe we’re supposed to, I don’t know.

   Given my obsession with poetry and words, at large, I suppose it was ideal that I would have fallen in love with the artistic pieces whereon were stanzas. I made it a priority to inform her how much of an impact the very gesture of bringing her passion to the world have had on me because I aspire to such a bold stride someday.

   Whether it be so, or not so,  That, for now shall be the end of that story, except that it isn’t, but the remaining, just like tomorrow, is promised to none.

II.  With Sweet Nova At The Bookstore.

   On our way back from the restaurant, we visited a local bookstore, of which I learned that my friend is particularly fond. Although we did not purchase any books, we thoroughly enjoyed marveling at the mosaic of their spines, the textile of the hardcover ones, and the delicacy of the  ones which are paperback.

   We made it our prerogative to pull the books  from the spots where they were intricately placed on each shelf, as we gleamed at the words on their pages in absolute awe, then abruptly place them back, some carefully and some partially, when we would stumble upon another one that beckoned at our interest even more.

   Our quickened fingers reaching upward and outwards, pulling in and turning over the manifestation of dreamer’s —— once, wild imagining. —— I always knew there was pleasure to be found in merely holding a book, but it becomes more immense when you find yourself in every word of every page of a particular book. There is an infinite feeling of bliss that everyone simply must experience, when you feel justly personified by or somehow connected to a writer through his work.

   As our tenure in the bookstore prolonged, a new and deeper belief started to enveloped within me that I am so close to having my books contrasted into stacks, everywhere. —— So much so, that for an instance, I saw the blurb of my books smiling down from shelves, (book heaven, if you will,) at faces the are a delightful spread of joy, at hands whose fingers would leave a fingerprint thereon, or fold a page to which they wish to return.  I saw my book, with the crooked  spine that is the residue of each reader who stretched it open to peer into its pages.

   Too, I felt such an appreciation for the space around me. I suppose my friend, (Nova) had always felt this way about the Bookstore, but I also suppose it is for her very own reasons. I had asked her, twice, maybe even a third time, but that question, like many others with which life befuddle us, remained unanswered query, at least for now.