Why is it that some things end up together? And why don’t I shoot the doors in Slovenia the same way as in Italy? First the poem, and then the doors with an invitation to write about them.
Prompt 21: “This prompt asks you to write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.“
A bit of soundtrack for the poem. Every morning upon reading the prompt, still in bed, I decide which direction to go and today Africa took me. And if you look at the very last photo in this post, Rome is almost Africa.
Three forgotten things How was it? We danced, oh how we danced. Your African dance lessons came just in time. I was losing my groove and you put my feet back on the ground. You were far from your home in Sudan and found Slovenian women aggressive. I didn’t know you that well but you seemed gentle to me, and that time we played five rounds of darts with my friends and each won exactly once, you laughed because you were the last to win and this made us all happy. What was that? All these many years later I’m pretty sure that what you wanted is still not doable. You had secretary in your job title and yet you walked into my office with your grey beard and a sheet of printed text. You made a motion towards the screen and mumbled something like: “Can you put this on that?” “Transcribe, you mean.” “No, just like that.” “You mean scan?” “No, we’ll need to edit it later.” How about that? A big step forward in my education on yet another primary school excursion with lots of walking and information that fogs my brain. We reach a castle on the hill and walk around its many rooms with art everywhere, and in an instant I decide to stop treating it as a nuisance. There is a purple painting and I fall in love. The artist is French, but not of the famous kind. I decide I’ll find things to love and love things I find. And now the question: Why did these three things jump up at me after so many years of dormancy? Can it be that this little prompt did it? In that case, it was not so little.
And now to doors.
First I’d like to draw your attention to the second Thursday Doors writing challenge. One more week everybody can send their door photo to our host Dan with the idea to inspire writers, and after May 1st everybody can choose a door to write to. Many fascinating doors have already been gathered.
Not Pam did it already, write to my door photo below. You can read her story “Manja Discovers the Hidden Truth” by clicking on the door. This photo has been added to Dan’s writing challenge gallery and you can write your own story to this door or choose another door among the suggested ones. Have a look and be inspired.
My doors today are all within a five minute walk from my parents’ home in Bežigrad, the district in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, my city of origin.
You will notice that I keep my distance, keep objects, shadows and branches between me and the doors as if to suddenly hide if busted. Approach with caution.
The last day in my NaPoWriMo history
What they don’t know is that the reason why the pond is so sad is that whenever Narcissus was lying on its flank on its bank, the pond was able to look deep into his eyes and in the abysses of his soul saw its own flawless beauty mirrored.
2019: Event Horizon
It has begun. Everyone’s biggest fear is coming true. A writer is losing words. A construction worker fears the abyss. A mother is watching as her child nears the edge. A dog owner is whistling in vain. An extrovert doesn’t know what to say. A proofreader is unable to spot errors. An internet addict is losing connection. A singer is losing voice. A model is losing looks. A painter is losing sight. A photographer is losing legs. An actress is gaining years. A ballet dancer is gaining weight. People are losing jobs to robots. Walruses have no space. Polar bears have no ice. Butterflies are under attack by fungi. Trees are lifting their roots to walk. The last mammal is being farmed by spiders.
2020: The understanding is mine
Do not wade in the shallow water, my mother told me, you might fall or a crab might pinch you. Do not go in the shallow woods, that is where the devil lurks, warned the priest. Do not read by the shallow light, my father advised, you will ruin your eyes. Do not wish for a shallow grave, aunts and uncles agreed, there is no escape from the dark hole. Do not surround yourself with shallow people, said grandpa and grandma, whom I obeyed the most. Do not speak shallow words, life taught me – they always return and demand to be buried deeper.
2021: Eye want
I won’t go gently or ungently into any kind of night or day I won’t go out on a limb I won’t go out on a whim I won’t go out on the town I won’t go out on a date I won’t go out of my way I won’t go out of my mind I won’t go out I won’t go I wont I won 👁👁 (Visit the post.)
This day in my blogging history