How would I wish 2015 to be immortalised in stone?
In response to the WordPress daily challenge <a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/immortalized-in-stone/”>Immortalized in Stone</a>
If I were to commission a sculptor to carve an immortal, personal symbol of 2015 what would it be?
I have a rather complicated image in my mind’s eye of the way I’d want my 2015 carved in stone as regular readers and friends will understand. To be immortalised means to be made non-mortal. God-like, even. Something never-ending, absolute, memorable. All positive.
And – lo, and behold, I’ve got there. Not immortal. No. Not there. I’ve arrived at the positive place that seemed unreachable six months ago, Hallelujah! Fates be praised. I’m sitting in the same chair by the same window, looking at the same view but I’m seeing something entirely different. Where once I saw empty space, now I see freedom – the freedom to fill that space with whatever I choose. How fabulous is that?
I’ve done the dying swan bit. More than once. I won’t go into details. Suffice it to say I keep on bouncing back. I should have been a cat but I don’t know how many lives I have left. Whatever it is I choose to do next I better get it right. You know, just in case I’m running out of bouncability.
However, not everybody agrees that being immortalised is necessarily a worthy objective.
I still have some heavy negatives to face. To fight. But, oh, boy am I up for it. I haven’t felt this strong in an age. I’m back to being me, the real me who somehow disappeared and only came out to play once a week at choir practice. It’s a damned good feeling.
So what would my sculpture be?
Imagine a stone spiral. At the solid base supporting the structure are hewn family, grandchildren and friends. Their loving arms are entwined above their heads and they’re holding up filigree metal branches decorated with books and paper and paints and paintbrushes and music scores with treble clefs and triplets. There are lipsticks and fancy bottles of perfume and shoes with killer heels.
And when the wind caresses my sculpture there is a humming sound through the branches; forged musical notes tinkle like a wind chime; the high heels tap their timpani against the stone till the spiral spins on its axis. When decorations fall from the sculpture it doesn’t matter because other people can add their own mementoes; their own important little fancies so that my sculpture is always changing.
That’ll do, monkey. We’re done now.