My heart lifted with the rise of each foot into Golden Gate Park at dusk. The full moon peeked through the cityscape as if God shined a light onto my empty page; but I moved to sit under the spotlight of a streetlamp and began to write. At the edge of the park, between grass and concrete, the pen teetered like a metronome from the Painted Ladies to Ocean Beach – beating with the heart of the city.
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| "The Painted Ladies, San Francisco" by Alex E. Proimos is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0. |
I sat with the incomplete thought
and held it in my hands – the page in one and the pen in the other – until the
sunrise peeked through the Manhattan towers and pierced the sleep from my eyes.
Like the exit of a lucid dream I entered the room of a beautiful and glorious
young woman – my bride. Her name is Clarity, but I call her Clara. She arose
from her paper-scattered desk as the light from the window across the room
filtered out the primeval thoughts of the morning. Her hair golden, illuminated
the space and time and thought which permeated the room. One could glean ideas
just being in her presence. Her eyes met mine, a sleepy yet welcoming smile
kissed my own. She was a vision. Our affection drew us into an embrace, and with
the skill of a thief she slipped the notepad from my hand.
As the embrace flirted with the
intimate, her eyes caressed the words I had written. I closed my eyes and
dreamed of her response. I drifted. Time stood still. Moment. Scent. The
softness of her hair.
She stood. I know her love. I know
her truth, as well. Her pen had scratched out the first paragraph – nothing
more. She gazed at me in her pre-coffee state, “You’ve never been to San
Francisco, and you are not God.”
My heart felt like a pincushion. It
always did whenever she sentenced my work to death – even if it was only a
portion. But – she was right. As the light of Wisdom is.
~
"Out in the open wisdom calls aloud, she raises her voice in the public square; on top of the wall she cries out, at the city gate she makes her speech ..."
