Hanging In A Jar Life

Hotep,

You know, writing has a mysterious effect on those who choose to use it as their tool of expression.  E.g. this particular post was shelved a little over a month ago.  I guess I was just over thinking the expression.  Sometimes I forget that these expressions come through me and not from me.  Ya heard?

The Gotham Writers’ Workshop teaches the aspiring writer that the time spent thinking of ideas for future projects, is considered “soft time.” Now, the flip side of that is “hard time.” This is when the writer is actually pushing the pen or punching the keys to bring his/her ideas to fruition.  So here it is:

I looked out of my cell window this morning (6/22/13) and immediately noticed a sight that hadn’t been there, in the days prior.  This sight took me back to a time back in Philly, where I would hang around the neighborhood steak shop, in hopes of obtaining a gallon–sized pickle jar.  I’d clean that pickle jar until the scent of pickles no longer existed.  Finding a twig or small stick – to place inside – was too easy.

I would use my Pops’ Phillips head screwdriver to poke holes in the top.  You see, this new sight is a spider resting at the center of a silk–sewn octagon, an underrated version of Divine Creation.  No doubt.

As a pre-teen, this form of Divine Creation intrigued me.  The independence and diligence of a spider was something I wanted to harness, bottle-up and have as my own.  Once the spiders got past the traumatic experience of being surrounded by glass; they’d eventually begin to spin their webs – in a fashion resembling their natural habitat.  I find that ironic because I’m sure the various eyes – possessed by this particular spider – observed me cleaning and rearranging my cell this morning.  Who knew?

Tell me; what form of a jar life would be considered the norm?  Life on death row is just that, a jar life.  The boundaries of your existence are constant reminders of the misfortunate chain of events that led to this life of confinement.

Unlike the spider, I’m trapped within the web surrounding me.  Once a spider creates its residence within that pickle jar; you can remove the top without fear of the spider’s hasty exit.  A spider’s web is its identity.  This prison cell is merely a situation for me.  No matter how often I clean it, no matter how many family photos occupy this forced place of residency, when the lid comes off, I’ll be more than ready to walk away from this web of legalities.  Word is bond!

I can recall constantly invading my neighbor’s flowerbed in search of spider nourishment.  Sorry, Ms. Angie.  Searching for bees, flies and the occasional grasshopper left your flowerbed to look more like a sandbox.  But if it’s any consolation, a very valuable lesson has come from my boyhood actions.  A jar life isn’t meant to contain independence, diligence and promise.  The tides have turned and now I know exactly what it’s like to be on the other side of the glass.  Feel me?

Be Easy,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann