I, Writer by Theresa Gaynord

I, Writer by Theresa Gaynord





Melody~



My romance language began with music,

stacks and stacks of vinyl records,45 RPM,

Moody Blues, I Know You're Out There

Somewhere.

Styx provided the essential acoustics for a

lonely child playing out stories in her head,

taking on the role of both speaker and listener.

When words failed, I mimicked body language,

creating an atrium of temperate white fabric

domed in multicolored flashing lights and

sprayed with Sweet Honesty perfume.



Instrumentals~



Sounds brushed hot against the flickers of a page

where images of red bled into purple joined by

the poisoned empires of string, wind, percussion

and drum.

The burned smell of cornstarch, talcum powder,

booger sugar, made me dream of Pan and I heard

his pipes, false god of lyre.

Blue and yellow produced an intimation of green

but it was not a clandestine attempt to mess with

my head. Instead, I saw the destruction of the

rainforests and owned up to my part in it.



Words~



I remembered the whites-only sign outside of Al's

candy store and I can still taste the pulp syrup

of the soda fountain coca-cola as Highway to Hell

played on the jukebox.

Our parents deliciously drunk on tea parties and

apple cider, mostly retired from the military, gave a

mere whisper, taking a backseat to the racism. This

is when I put away my broken crayons and ran way-out

to the open road past the segregated streets to a

trip down Route 66. I spent a night beside a truck

driver where we both pretended to be outlaws.



Song~



200 filtered Chesterfield King Size cigs coated my lungs

with the prospect of driving through a desert canyon

full of blind curves and hidden ridges. What I saw

outside my window was the song of poetry.

I grew up a storyteller while dancing with Joe at Samson's

Saloon. Jeannie taught me sign language, and how to

take shots of tequila. The rules were simple and centered

around mutual respect. Strangers became my neighbors,

my friends, and I spit at billboards that pushed against

the black/white limits, spray-painting them with Jesus

Saves!



Acappella~



Rejean was a Baptist minister working for the Church Of

Christ. He had an old wind up Victrola in his office and often

listened to Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey while wearing a

furry pink boa and voging in front of his full-length mirror.

When Ma Rainey comes to town,

Folks from anyplace miles aroun',

From Cape Girardeau, Poplar Bluff,

Flocks in to hear Ma do her stuff.

Where ya heading now, child? He used to ask. Home, I'd say.

Home? He laughed, dancing around in a circle. Home ain't

nothing but a place, child.



Freestyle~



I sped away one night,staid, with Kid Rock on the radio. Just vanished

until I blurred into an abstract in true dramatic style. I liked it like

that, where everyone in their own little way participated in my ideas,

in my gypsy heart.

I romanticized them with adventuresome passion, holding

on to the fleeting moments with background music and

violins as I listened to the signaling horns of passing cars

on the freeway. I wouldn't have stopped had I not been

hungry for ambience and some conversation.It was a welcoming

place when I arrived. Home. But every now and then I daydream.

There's always something waiting, something pulling me to the unknown.