Post by RoughWriters on Dec 1, 2011 17:27:03 GMT -6
Today's writing exercise was to think about a place that holds a great deal of emotion for us, then take the basic senses, and describe that place thoroughly, using sight, hearing, taste, touch and smell.
Post by Edward Cheever on Dec 1, 2011 17:27:41 GMT -6
Staring through the pouring rain, down into the creek bed, I can see the water rising. Even though I stand beneath the awning over our back porch, I can feel the cool moisture of the air settling on my skin. Tiny bumps crawl up my arms, and the tingling sensation of the cold matches the vibration of the excitement, and anxiety, in my bones. For all that I enjoy the sensation, I revile it. The scent of running water, mixed lightly with the smell of nature and the silt of the yard, permeates everything. The world carries an azure tint, a grey and blue glaze, and for all the drops that thunder around me, the world seems clearer somehow. That constant, light roar, providing the choir choruses of the world.
The rising water is just barely cupped by the muddy sides of the creek, and in places it already spills over, nestling into the shallow crevices and bowls of the landscape. The rain isn’t letting up yet.
There is an intensity of emotions in watching those filthy waters bulge, knowing that just a bit more, if it rained just a little harder, it might sweep up to your door. And I can almost imagine the foul muddy taste of the waters; being swept away in them. And yet I cannot leave where I stand. I cannot even go indoors, and shut away the sight of the rushing, tumbling little waves, and the terrible currents that drag tree branches, old bottles, and forgotten trash around the bend, and then away again. I cannot leave these smells and sounds, though they pour over my senses as if to overwhelm me, as one is forced down by the beat of a waterfall; it is all wonderful, and awe aches at me.
I live at the edge of destruction, reveling in the cold, the wet, and the driving rain.
I have a profound fondness for completely surpassing other's expectations of me.
Through the dense woods behind the old Maloney house, there exists a cave that reaches into the cliffs. The shadows that cover the inner reaches of the cave are shrouded in a darkeness that surpases the absence of light and looks to be its own progenitor. Tendrils of grass hang from the mouth above the cave and mingle sinuously into the rock face. The roots of a nearby oak thrust themselves from the roof of the cave, creating a jagged mouth. There is a sweet dankness to the air that wafts from the mossy rocks. The wind that crests the mouth is split between the sweetness of the cave and the woody aroma of cedar. There is a susurrus throughout the cave because of the silence, a dim hum of hollowness that borders the real world. The air is foreboding taste of wooden earth, sharp and mellow. Every breath brings a stronger sense of its odor. Though there is a coldness, the feeling is a warm one. A nostalgic one tinged with the warmth of memories.
Of all the things I own, of all the places I’ve been, nothings holds as much importance to me as my piano does. It is a full keyboard, an instrument of mixed silver, black, and white. The speakers are covered over with a fine grey cloth, peppered with tiny snags from where my cats have used it as a springboard and a scratching post. It does not have any distinct odor, unless one considers the faint scent of dust and plastic that can occasionally be noticed if real attention is given to it. I have never tried to taste it, but I’m sure that, should I ever feel compelled to do so, it would taste mostly of dust. The keys are cool and smooth to the touch, the smoothness hampered only by the grime that covers them, so rarely do I have the time to touch them now. But the sound…ah, that is what makes the difference. One moment I can strike the keys and hear the mellow tone of the classic piano. The next, I can hear the deep rumble of an organ or the high trill of a music box. The melodies, even if they are but simple, random tappings of the keys, echo in my ears, reminding me of the hopes and dreams, expectations and confidence of the one who gave me the instrument, even though that person is no longer alive.
I would call this place my “happy place” for it has no other name at least one I will say. It holds my memories and many secrets that I hold close. My sense of smell is my strongest of the five senses and therefore is the first thing about this place I will use. It smells like. . . fresh cut spring flowers strewn across a babbling brook with a hint of lemon. That may sound kind of cliché but it really smell like fresh cut flowers, for there are flowers everywhere. Their perfume moves fluidly within the breeze as if it was two dancers madly in love. I smell fruit trees of citrus and berry. The cool breezes smell fresh and clean and cause the grass to wave hello. I can see all the colors. Reds, greens, blues, yellows every hue imaginable is in this place. There is a babbling brook that contains cool crystal clear water that flows in and around here. I can taste the spring water that is in this brook that flows ever so swiftly from the mountain tops. Little minnows swim within and soft green grass lines the banks. I lay in the grass, so soft and warm like lying surrounded by silky blankets that run through your fingers like gentle velvet. The sun overhead warms the cool crisp air. But the most beautiful thing of all, are the mountains. These giants cocoon my sanctuary. Their heights rushing to dizzying lofts that one cannot seem quite able to reach. The snow is already on the peaks, and the tall pines go almost to the very top. Their colors of green, gray, white and brown paint one of the most awe-inspiring pictures. Birds zipping around zigzagging back and forth twittering around. Peace and joy fill my heart. The beauty surrounding me is astounding. Supple breezes seductively twirl and curl around me making me feel as if I could fly. Although I know I can not, Here, I feel like I can do anything, and be anything and do not have any restrictions placed on me. This is. . . my place.
"The only true equalisers in the world are books; the only treasure-house open to all comers is a library; the only wealth which will not decay is knowledge; the only jewel which you can carry beyond the grave is wisdom." - J. A. Langford
The wind whirls up from the salty blue plan dashing its salty aroma against the green grandma toothed mountains that hold back the smog of the city. With every breath I breathed morning freshness mixed with the salts of moisture which ravaged my nostrils with utter delight and calmness. Standing on the top of such a jagged rock looking down the green labyrinth and beyond to the great expanse of blue disappearing into the sky, I use to notice the leaves of shadowed giants pass by whistling with the wind. Then out of the heavens silence was heard and my hair would stand on end reaching out to comfort the electricity in the atmosphere. White mastodons of picasso's liking drift into the green and blue basin killing shadows. The taste of thinker water would pucker my lips and puffs my eyes thereby bloat me. My home I would gaze at from above as the white purities covered it, this gray concrete disk in a half bowl of God’s dinner. Quickly I would run down the side to this platform and the tastes of dirt would rush in and be my face. My own salty fragrance filling my ears with the sounds of falling rain, which only foreshadowed my pursuer, God’s growl as he comes over for dinner.