photo credit: alex__w

Today’s workshop consisted of writing a number of words (a name, a place and four descriptive ones) and then passing these to another person to use as the basis for their writing. This writing had to be produced within a time limit of ten-fifteen minutes.

My words (courtesy of Ken) were:

John Dobequick, Wizened, at the Greyhound, Cromford, Wizened, Threatningly, Devastation, Totally

This provoked the following prose (and also a short piece of poetry).

RIGHT HAND / WRITING HAND

“Let me ask you a question” said the man as he walked across the grass from the far reaches of the trees. There was no one else around that he could have been addressing so I hesitated, caught for a moment in the oncoming probability of moral devastation.

It was difficult to judge if his manner was totally, threateningly applied, so I glanced briefly towards him, spying him out, as one might towards the resident drunk of The Greyhound, Cromford when he starts his diatribe, finding fault in all around him.

“Are you a King sir? And your lady a Queen ?”. He didn’t wait for me to absorb his questions but continued.

“I am John Dobequick, a poet and singer in a blues band. I believe a King and Queen you are, let me tell you a poem. Let me walk awhile beside you, beneath the blanket of stars.”

It was only then that my ingrained compulsion for harsh estimation wavered, when I saw the wizened stump of his right hand, his writing hand, his guitar-picking hand. Only then that I could understand the mirror-nature of our encounter, the meaning that moment had to teach.

So let me now ask you as question. Do we each remember gratitude for the perfection of all that we possess? Do we each ever stop in the dark to realise our own blessings, the uniqueness of our own stars ?