Date:         Wed, 4 Jun 1997 22:55:23 EDT
From: "doublemint, doubletink?" <mbarker@MIT.EDU>
Subject:      FILLER: The Springs of Writing

I think I'd call this a ramble?  or maybe it's a bramble, a thicket
of meaninglessness?

Since it is possible that some of you don't read the weekly FAQ, (I
know that it may be hard to believe, but I'm sure there are a few who
don't peruse every puerile pucker of that oft-repeated post) allow me
to pull this out and post it for your pleasure.

I'm not sure quite what to make of this, but I do like it, I think.

Comments?

tink

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The Springs of Writing
Copyright 1997 Mike Barker

Sometimes, out tramping around on a mountainside, with the crack of a
twig underfoot and all the other fine sensual awakening that seems to
be part of celebrating the out-of-doors, you may come across a spring.
A tiny ripple of water, perhaps not even that so much as a soaking,
but a place where the earth lets go of the water again, and it begins.

I love to stop and think about where that little spring is going.  The
drops of water, seeping out, touching me, and then slowly passing on
to...

Sometimes, of course, you'll find larger, clear springs, pushing up
forcefully, and sweeping away obstructions.

But no matter where the springs start, after a while the tiny drips
and great gushers join, form streams, laughing, chuckling along,
feeding the bushes and trees, alive with insects and fish.

And rain falls, adding muddy roils and softer plink-plink-plink
touches, criss-crossing, draining tastes of new growth and ancient
mold into the mix, wandering here and there...

Sometimes snow melts, or ice CRACKS and shakes, spins, softens, and
adds its weight to the rushing waters...

Here a pond collects the tastes of many streams, the runoff of the
hills, the silt of fields growing, and provides a place for spirits to
cool and calm, listening to the burp of frogs diving into the depths,
the soft rustle of grass growing, the quiet of a summer evening...

Down centuries of time, across chasms of cultural division, from
momentary leaves of today's crops, the waters roll.  Fine streams,
heavy flood waters, grinding, bursting, laving and washing the best
and the worst...

When the shower touches you, you can put your head down and trudge
through the mud, angry at the weather...

Or...

You can lift your face to the wonder, search for the promise of the
rainbow, and laugh into the rain, into the thunder, into the lightning

as the waters mix again, meeting, parting, on their way to the
ocean of life through the rivers and streams, the dams and meanders,
the wandering and late-night tears...

all in the waters of writing.

Whether you want to just wash your hands, or maybe dip your head in
and refresh yourself, or even dive in and be baptised into the depths
of that life, feel free.  And let your own springs gurgle forth,
adding that fine clear flavor of yourself to the mix.

The waters will return, in time.

The gentle rains, the fierce riptides of the ocean, the hidden
aquafers that wet the footing of all lands...the ebb and flow of
waters, the ebb and flow of writing...

and the moon holding sway over all.

A muse of rain, perhaps...
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