This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Follow the links in this page to get to all of my other entries for this week, plus a recommendation or two of previous entries.
Welcome back to my mindhouse. I've been spending a lot of time in here for the last week, enough that I had to add a special room for my ponderings. Follow me, please, past the busy room of tasks and errands that need attention, then walk past the cave-like worry room. Even further now, and put your fingers in your ears to bypass the bright newsroom of current events, or you'll never get through. Thank goodness, we're nearly there. Just step into the inviting creativity suite, with its atmospheric music and alluring scent of peppermint and vanilla (updated for the holidays).
Just a few more steps, please, across the cushioned floor, past the windows draped with filmy curtains. There, in the back corner, can you see the new construction? That archway, made of warm wood and emblazoned in gold across the top: "The Wheel of Chaos." Let's step inside.
Far from chaotic, this room feels welcoming. As you enter, you'll see shelves lined with chapbooks, with the names of a variety of writers on the spines. Some are thicker than others, but all of them give off the air of being well-read by someone who has carefully ruffled through the pages, poring over the words.
To give you an idea of what I mean, pull out the volume marked "![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marjorica" and turn to page 9, to the piece marked "Edgelord". You'll find that the book opens neatly to that page, as someone has clearly reread it multiple times. Read it, and you'll see why. Though written in prose, the piece distills the energy of a poem: suffused with vivid description, using carefully crafted wording, and allowing space for the reader to make connections. Note that the reader has underlined these words in the final paragraph: "There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it." How very true.
As we traverse a little further into the room, you'll see a rolled-up scroll on a little walnut table, draped with a tablecloth that's embroidered with daffodils. Next to the scroll are china bowls containing honey, milk, and a sprig of asters. If you untie the ribbon and open the curled-up linen paper, you'll see that it's an open letter tobleodswean, who ran in the Wheel of Chaos but, sadly, was eventually kidnapped by werewolves.
After a suitable period of mourning, please pull one more volume off the shelf, marked with my own name. Turn to page 3, and you'll find a poem titled "Behold." Before you read it, I'll explain why it's my favorite entry that I wrote during the Wheel of Chaos. In it, I was able to put into words a moment that has followed me for 15 years. Truthfully, just as I say in the poem, I feel that same connection with my son all these years later, when I look into his kind, expressive eyes.
Step further into the room, and you'll see that, in addition to the bookshelves, there are seating areas that seem to be focused on themes. Over there in the corner are some fantastic-looking antique thrones, perfect for ruminating on fictional worlds, such as an alien mother or a remorseful witch. You can tell I've spent a little time there, but not as much as two larger areas.
First, I'll take you to the poetry corner: the walls lined with hand-written rough drafts with crossed-out lines, circles, and arrows. Poetry is never pretty, until it is. And even then, it's not always delicate or contemplative. In fact, poetry can be a fun adventure, or even a scientific experiment. With that in mind, please sit in the overstuffed armchair and read my newest poem, "Adventures in Science". Don't be alarmed if, after reading it, you start repeating "six seven, six seven, six seven." That will wear off soon enough, as long as you're not near any elementary school or middle school kids.
As we continue our tour of the room, you'll find an area filled with yoga mats and straight-backed floor chairs, designed for those who'd like to contemplate deep thoughts, such as the meaning of nothingness, or, say, visualizing your inner thoughts as a house you can walk through.
The final seating area invites you to lounge on comfortable couches, or beanbag chairs, or a rocker recliner. Photos decorate the nearby walls and end tables, many of them containing a boy with light brown hair and chestnut brown eyes. On the coffee table rests an album, stuffed to overflowing with pictures, playbills, journal entries, and other memoranda. This place, you realize, is perfect for sitting down with an autobiography, or perhaps something more manageable, like a personal essay. I've got one ready for you, "A Banner Year," about the parallel experiences that my son and I had in high school marching band.
There's one last area, as we complete our circle and grow near the same archway that we originally entered. On a decorative stand lies an open book with a filigreed cover and lightly lined pages. A sign on the wall above it says, "Thank you for visiting. I hope you've enjoyed your journey through my mindhouse. Please leave your comments, well wishes, or memories."
And that, my friend, completes our tour.
A clear glass rose bowl, containing an arrangement of pale pink roses and snowberries, sits on a dark wood accent table, in front of a bookshelf loaded with antique books.
(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)
Welcome back to my mindhouse. I've been spending a lot of time in here for the last week, enough that I had to add a special room for my ponderings. Follow me, please, past the busy room of tasks and errands that need attention, then walk past the cave-like worry room. Even further now, and put your fingers in your ears to bypass the bright newsroom of current events, or you'll never get through. Thank goodness, we're nearly there. Just step into the inviting creativity suite, with its atmospheric music and alluring scent of peppermint and vanilla (updated for the holidays).
Just a few more steps, please, across the cushioned floor, past the windows draped with filmy curtains. There, in the back corner, can you see the new construction? That archway, made of warm wood and emblazoned in gold across the top: "The Wheel of Chaos." Let's step inside.
Far from chaotic, this room feels welcoming. As you enter, you'll see shelves lined with chapbooks, with the names of a variety of writers on the spines. Some are thicker than others, but all of them give off the air of being well-read by someone who has carefully ruffled through the pages, poring over the words.
To give you an idea of what I mean, pull out the volume marked "
marjorica" and turn to page 9, to the piece marked "Edgelord". You'll find that the book opens neatly to that page, as someone has clearly reread it multiple times. Read it, and you'll see why. Though written in prose, the piece distills the energy of a poem: suffused with vivid description, using carefully crafted wording, and allowing space for the reader to make connections. Note that the reader has underlined these words in the final paragraph: "There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it." How very true.As we traverse a little further into the room, you'll see a rolled-up scroll on a little walnut table, draped with a tablecloth that's embroidered with daffodils. Next to the scroll are china bowls containing honey, milk, and a sprig of asters. If you untie the ribbon and open the curled-up linen paper, you'll see that it's an open letter to
bleodswean, who ran in the Wheel of Chaos but, sadly, was eventually kidnapped by werewolves.After a suitable period of mourning, please pull one more volume off the shelf, marked with my own name. Turn to page 3, and you'll find a poem titled "Behold." Before you read it, I'll explain why it's my favorite entry that I wrote during the Wheel of Chaos. In it, I was able to put into words a moment that has followed me for 15 years. Truthfully, just as I say in the poem, I feel that same connection with my son all these years later, when I look into his kind, expressive eyes.
Step further into the room, and you'll see that, in addition to the bookshelves, there are seating areas that seem to be focused on themes. Over there in the corner are some fantastic-looking antique thrones, perfect for ruminating on fictional worlds, such as an alien mother or a remorseful witch. You can tell I've spent a little time there, but not as much as two larger areas.
First, I'll take you to the poetry corner: the walls lined with hand-written rough drafts with crossed-out lines, circles, and arrows. Poetry is never pretty, until it is. And even then, it's not always delicate or contemplative. In fact, poetry can be a fun adventure, or even a scientific experiment. With that in mind, please sit in the overstuffed armchair and read my newest poem, "Adventures in Science". Don't be alarmed if, after reading it, you start repeating "six seven, six seven, six seven." That will wear off soon enough, as long as you're not near any elementary school or middle school kids.
As we continue our tour of the room, you'll find an area filled with yoga mats and straight-backed floor chairs, designed for those who'd like to contemplate deep thoughts, such as the meaning of nothingness, or, say, visualizing your inner thoughts as a house you can walk through.
The final seating area invites you to lounge on comfortable couches, or beanbag chairs, or a rocker recliner. Photos decorate the nearby walls and end tables, many of them containing a boy with light brown hair and chestnut brown eyes. On the coffee table rests an album, stuffed to overflowing with pictures, playbills, journal entries, and other memoranda. This place, you realize, is perfect for sitting down with an autobiography, or perhaps something more manageable, like a personal essay. I've got one ready for you, "A Banner Year," about the parallel experiences that my son and I had in high school marching band.
There's one last area, as we complete our circle and grow near the same archway that we originally entered. On a decorative stand lies an open book with a filigreed cover and lightly lined pages. A sign on the wall above it says, "Thank you for visiting. I hope you've enjoyed your journey through my mindhouse. Please leave your comments, well wishes, or memories."
And that, my friend, completes our tour.
A clear glass rose bowl, containing an arrangement of pale pink roses and snowberries, sits on a dark wood accent table, in front of a bookshelf loaded with antique books.
(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)
