A Painter Of Words
There is this writer I once met… He slid down the roof of a library café.
Followingly, a common acquaintance had introduced him to me, and me to him.
His presence looked more of an artist… a painter of words!
I cannot remember each of his movements, accurately.
There was some movement while his presence sat at the table right next to me. A mug of tea rested in front of him. The next thing I knew, he was writing by my side. Not on a desktop, but with a pencil on a black-covered notebook. I took notice of that! I could see a bit of his profile.
A presence landed from other realms… The realm of writers and writing - a masterpiece of the masterminds.
It was around noon. My stomach was noiselessly growling. I was intrigued by his presence. A bit.
I packed my stuff. The table he was writing on wasn’t stable. Not at all. The one I sat at was stable.
I was hungry. Heading down the stairs to make my way out of the library, I looked towards him and said:
I: “You could use the other table now that I am leaving. It’s stable.”
He - I cannot remember his response. I remember it had intrigued me, yet I don’t remember it exactly. I know he didn’t look my way.
His presence felt fine and cozy. I am talkative, yet not a conversation starter. Unless I am working and networking as part of my earning a living, I don’t start conversations.
I talked to him.
I went home to quench my hunger. One-two hours later, when I arrived back, to my surprise, he was still there. Somehow, I don’t know why, I was glad he was there.
His presence felt colourful.
This time, I sat at the moving unbalanced table. He was about to leave.
We had a conversation.
I was having a conversation in Romania, not anywhere else around the globe! Oh my, that's NEW!
The rooftop of his mind felt open to places and spaces. Younger than me in terms of chronological age, he held the reins of the conversation. He’s a writer. I am a storyteller and hopefully, becoming a writer. His mind led the conversation… so it seemed to me.
I liked it!
He left. I resumed my writing.
One would say he’s reclusive by nature. That’s what his blog reads. Nevertheless, I believe he’s one of the most crystal clear essences of being I have ever encountered in my life, so far. It seems I am keen on this phrase nowadays: “essence d’être”. It sounds soothing.
I like to think we have become friends.
In the Orient, there's a shadowy side to our personalities. Perhaps it's encoded in our genes. That is to my belief, of course! A sort of dance of the dunes. Life has always been quite harsh in and around the Orient. Keeping one’s thoughts to oneself has been one of the musts conveyed by the manual of survival or was it the jungle of life? One could drown in the ocean of unpredictable shifts. The truth might wake up to a new reality. In a blink of an eye! Just like the wind erases any shadow of a trace in the sand, under the scorching sun. At times, a person can open their eyes to a brand new reality, in the Orient. Or to other whims of a narcissistic engulfing being, in Europe. Nevertheless, truth shines through the dunes and the shadows, altogether.
Just as his essence of being glows in the sun of his shadow, transparently.
There is something indefinite about him. I like it this way.
The essence of his being flows. His aura feels fluffy, panda-like. He is the thin-skinny type, as far as I recall.
I simply adore the cadence of his writing.
Alongside his pure English… an English of the 19th century? Of the eternal now?
I wouldn’t call him an old soul, but rather an emancipated one. Bearing the past, the present and the future in the nib of his fountain pen.
Had I hugged his stories, would the presence of his words give colour to my path and lift the foggy shadow resting on the intersection of "my" now?
I guess I feel something in-between awe and admiration for his writing.
Am I jealous?
Well…, at times, he surely did step on the toes of mon être and I had to pour some jars of colour over the shadow of his energetic presence!
God willing, he’s gifted! He’s a gifted writer… Words follow their natural course in the river of inspiration. It’s a steady flow. Effortless, it seems. Words ARE in the river of his writing. Grounded, where they belong.
Whenever I visit his blog, he takes me places. I start seeing a clear pond where everything is transparent. Crystal clear. All the pebbles are very visible in this pond. As they are. Naturally mixed.
There’s this energy floating and taking off from every syllable he writes. It’s not only his “writing” but also the energy his writing gives away. It’s strongly earthed and grounded. Elegant and noble. Simple and complex. Sweet and funny. He might rest in the shadow. His presence shines in the sun.
How could I embrace his mind since it’s not palpable? I might, instead, embrace the shadow of his presence - his writing.
Could presence be a synonym for "shadow"? A very colourful presence, actually!
Earnestly, for a reason I cannot explain, the generation 1985+ & 1990+ seems both mentally and very spiritually awakened… and much advanced, I'd say, to most of the fellow-guys I have met, of my and elder generation. Especially, in terms of mindset! God bless them all!
I'm an 82'er! A hybrid myself even when it comes to generation positioning. According to the Harvard Center, I am both a Generation X&Yer, and according to Strauss& Howe I happen to be an old millennial (1982-2004) as reviewed in The Wire. Or just a Gen Yer. This is a thorough subject to be tackled - some other time. For now, the point I want to make is that these guys aged 24-33 have an awakened, fresh mindset, irrespective of country, religion or race! This intrigues me very much. I shall care to "investigate" the topic, furthermore. For now, I am saying: These guys have a liberated, independent, unconstrained, unrepressed, free-spirited mindset. Avant their temps, perhaps? Or is it avant mon temps?
I read one post of his. He speaks the truth of his life, describes situations.
One of the synchronicities of the universe, perhaps? The post found me. It popped up! Drawing my attention, I read it.
I am thinking of drafting some posts on the relationship between the narcissistic mother and her daughter. On the irreversible damage, it causes to the mental sanity of the child, for years. Until the child miraculously heals. The universe might give him a partial answer to a question he had asked his readers, three years ago. I am one of his readers and I shall recount my experience soon.
He… speaks the truth without rendering vulnerability. He stands grounded in his being, just as truth stands tall in its transparency.
An artist? A writer? A painter of words? Perhaps, a seer? Why define or try to name him when HE IS?
“Since you’re into roses, you’ve heard of the cryogenic roses, haven’t you? They preserve their redness for years in their glass globe, away from water, away from the sun…”, reads one of his messages.
A seer, perhaps - after all?
Rosary Rose, one could say that I am a proud and lucky curator of distinguished characters and life stories, am I not? There were times when I wouldn’t like people. Not even a tiny bit.
Nevertheless, creating this virtual oasis of roses has been the very seed of a good omen. It’s such a lovely feeling to BE surrounded by petals of authenticity here, amidst the corolla of the Damascene Rose, where everyone IS!