SOLITUDE

Beneath the Spin*Eric L. Wattree

SOLITUDE
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There was a little house in Watts, in the back of my grandparents’ home that sat totally silent, just for me. It sat there in complete obedience to fulfil it’s one and only purpose, to accommodate, and give focus to the thoughts of a young and aimless mind. Totally vacant accept for a sofa and a table, there was no furniture to warm the air.  So as I sat in it’s embrace, and quietly drew the thoughts I couldn't express, I could feel the clean, cool air against my face as it locked the noise and confusion of humanity out of that small niche of the universe that I had claimed as my own.
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I loved that house, because it introduced the soul of a child to the beauty of solitude. I would sit there for hours with paper and pencil trying to bring life to my thoughts. I couldn't write back then, so I would breathe substance into my world by drawing the images of crude little stickmen that I would speak to, then patiently awaited the time when they could speak back. 
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So all these many years later, I still go there, but only in my mind. I return to escape life’s horrors;  I also visit to celebrate life’s triumphs. I go there to commune with those who left me behind. My grandparents are there, my mother is there, and my late wife is there to comfort me when I’m lost.  But my manhood is also there to reinforce me, and the depth of my intellect resides there to inform me and to give flesh to the stickmen I'd left behind.
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Hello, my friend. I'm back. 

So, yes, I love that little house, and the perfect solitude that it made all mine. I also loved the cool, clean air, and the crude little stickmen it always brings to mind.
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Eric L. Wattree
wattree.blogspot.com Ewattree@Gmail.com
Citizens Against Reckless Middle-Class Abuse (CARMA)
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Religious bigotry: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does.

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