Jeremiah's Journey - 6: "There Are No Fences"

I traced the thread of thoughts sewn into the fabric of my mind − Jeremiah’s. Dendrites and synapses, reservoirs of neurotransmitters release in synchronous melody adrenaline, noradrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin, GABA, acetylcholine, glutamate, and endorphins. A symphony is playing, one hundred musicians and vocalists performing a ballad composed forty-five years ago in tribute to four rock musicians that defined a stairway to heaven, not in a spiritual sense, but of the world.

In the silvery solitude of night, I found my way to the kitchen of the villa rented for the spring in Tuscany to write the story of finding what I was searching. I will steep some tea, or is the brew of coffee? No, bedtime tea, I should sleep; it is night, and I am to bed at night. No, the aroma of the soils in which the beans received their sustenance, that will be the aphrodisiac of my senses, not the refined leaves of aristocratic political correctness. The creative right hemisphere of my brain was taking over and elbowed the logical left out of the way. I have a balanced mind, yet there can be only one cook in the kitchen.

Pouring the filtered water in the cup, I timed the microwave for the precise time to heat to 80 degrees centigrade. I am in Europe, and they think differently here. Fahrenheit and feet, pounds and inches, why so complicated? Kilos and meters and centigrade degrees, there is the logic. Left was trying to gain a foothold but right would have none of it. The thread of yesterday, a blend of afternoon, evening, and night, what do I call it? Yesterfield? Yes, yesterfield is a field of dreams that defy time. It’s not a word, left says. Right intervenes and cuts in the line of my thoughts. I make of my mind what makes sense, forbidding all rules.

The seconds counted down. Thank God there are not two means of computing time. Left and right agree on this one, there is only one way to calculate time. The microwave shuts down; the digital clock goes dark, and the fish tank pump is silent. What time is it? Does it matter? Blackout. I thought of World War II, but no sirens are screaming. How was I to know what that must have felt like? I am Generation X, and Vietnam was on the other side of the world with its jungles, snakes, Agent Orange, and guerilla warfare. No power, no coffee − that was my dilemma. What does a writer do? Candlelight and pen and paper, a glass of wine to open the damn of words that filled the lake of thoughts throughout my dreams.

Writers have no rules. There are no fences. I express feelings and thoughts like a spigot of water. There are no barriers for water. It finds its way and breaks down boundaries, seeping in the crevices, flowing over the dam, water will find its way out; there’s no stopping it. And so, the creative right of my mind takes over, and logical left remains to sulk in the corner, pouting.

Adelina is on my mind and poetic timber dances. We were on the bridge − Ponte Vecchio − Oh, how I love Italian names! She caressed the padlocks of love, the symbol that love will never end. I saw it as bondage. Love should flow freely as the river beneath us, no dam of circumstances to halt it. Love is like water; it will find its way.

Window of soul what do you show?

Stone or tenderness, I will know.

Steely eyes or a tunnel to explore?

One is a wall, the other a door,

Open to your heart of love.

Her eyes drew me into her soul. I had just met her, the rose the key to the lock of her heart that opened to the meadow of tall grasses that sway in the wind, two chasing butterflies fluttering without worry. Here there, there here, wherever the scent of attraction.

Should hearts flutter such as this?

Jeremiah's Journey – 6: "There Are No Fences”
Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge

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