[stylist] Back to writing, anyone? My first contribution

[Jackie Williams]

Bridgit,
I am still going way back to try to catch up and comment on some out-of-date
e-mails. I re-read this with the same sense of awe I had the first time. I
just love the portrayal of "sight" that you make throughout this piece as
jealous and crowding out the other senses. And the words you use to describe
what happens when touch has the chance to replace sight is beautiful and
many-splendored.
In my opinion, this should be required reading for the sighted.


Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz	 


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Bridgit
Pollpeter
Sent: Thursday, March 13, 2014 10:57 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] Back to writing, anyone? My first contribution

I want to write something brand new for this thread, but I may need the
weekend to think of something, but for now, here's something I wrote a
while ago. Not really sure where it's going, and it's more a literary
rant right now, but enjoy it for what it's worth.


Television fuzz swirls around my vision like a blizzard. Colors pop in
blues, reds, yellows and greens. A primary color chart taunting my mind;
reminding it of the color the world possesses beyond the snowy world of
my vision.

Staring at what I know is a computer screen, a dim tint of blue mist
through the fuzz eddying across my eyes. I'm lost in contemplation,
trying to focus, but my thoughts twirl as quickly as the snowy picture I
see before me.

Blindness does nothing to dim the vibrant pictures in my mind. Colors,
shapes, memories-they all take on brilliant hues. A kaleidoscope of
images; some real, some imagined, but all clear. A high-def picture I
have but to simply recall.

People think blindness has tainted my experience of the world; that
because I can no longer visually see, I can no longer share in the human
experience. My emotions, thoughts, ideas, feelings, opinions are all dim
reflections of real senses because I can't use my eyes to shape them.

Yet sight is the least intimate of our senses. Because of this, sight
grows jealous, wanting to destroy, wanting to be the only sense we rely
on. It stimulates us like a lover, dimming our other senses. Sight is
proud, unwilling to consider a consort, a companion.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the brightest sense of all? It chants
day after day until we believe it. Sight poisons our other senses,
forcing them into deep slumbers, never to awake.

Have you ever paid attention to the outline of your lover? The texture
of breathing flesh, stretched and formed to hold your soul. Learned each
spot and the secrets it contains? A tangible configuration inviting you
to glimpse the soul within.

Have you ever taken in the soft silken embrace of your child? The
miniature parts developing into, who knows? Dimples marking growth to
come, a cherished topography created by fire.

Have you felt a kiss and let it linger? Listening to the static crisping
along your extremities? Letting warmth possess each curve, each nerve;
like a soft blanket wrapped around you on a cold day, or hot liquid
steaming through your body.

Have you ever heard the gods paint a picture through your ears? The
trill of birdsong heralding spring, and the chirping harmonies of
crickets mingling with the haze of summer. The peeling laughter of
children as their boots crunch on snow, packed and smoothed, perfect for
sledding.

Have you ever allowed music to pluck a melody, reverberating through
your being? Swelling the expanse of your body, inspiring, reflecting,
coating your thoughts with a radiant sheen.

Sight is selfish though, hording each moment, each memory. It's greedy,
not willing to share sound, smell, touch. Intimacy is found gazing upon
a vast ocean to the other side.


Bridgit


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