Monday, June 14, 2010
Pops Walker looks like a rough George Clooney doing facial gymnastics. To me, he sounds like Louis Armstrong, with maybe even more gravel in his gullet. He goes somewhere when he performs, and I think I know where. His destination, maybe another planet or constellation, is a place called Bliss.
I know Bliss 'cause I've been there too. It's a place that when you get there, everything is right. No. Perfect. The senses, all five of 'em, are standing at attention. The creative synapses beneath your head skin are ready to snap, crackle, pop. And your hands, or your mouth, or both, are ready to do the necessary things. To create.
Pick your poison--poetry, prose, or song. Slurp it into your being with a bendy straw, or shovel it in with a serving spoon. Pick quality over quantity. Pet your trachea to encourage your voice.
"Come on now. Don't be shy. Come out where folks can see you."
Into the air. Onto the page.
I'm tuckered out. When you listen, see, learn, internalize, visualize, share, that much, that fast, with like-minded folks, there's bound to be fatigue. A hungover feeling on Monday. A sadness that 12 months lie between today and the next time.
I know where Bliss is, do you? Bliss is in Ripley, West Virginia.
(This piece is dedicated to all my West Virginia Writer pals. Until we meet again.)