WRITING: Natural Symbolism

I have carefully avoided personal references here lately–few care, and why hang out the dirty laundry?  (metaphorical cliche!)  However, a writer’s words cannot help but be a part of his own self, gained through  hands-on or observation.

It is fairly easy to assign symbols to readings, once studied and understood as far as close reading becomes a way of life.  And symbolism and metaphor find their way into the writing.  Then–or often priorly done but maybe unassumed–one notices the tendency to see such symbolism in reality.  Today two dead workshop lights flickered and came on; this, after several attempts were made last week climbing up and down tables and stools to change the fluorescent tubes to service the areas where the light is most needed (the customer counter work area, and the worktable where I spend too much time reading).  I took this as a sign that things are changing–that the light shall shine through the darkness I have stumbled through for two years now. 

The soaring eagle.  The four bluebirds at the feeder.  Consolation as the current choice of learning.  Yet the eagle is seldom seen–at least by me–and greeted with great joy and a sense of calm.  The bluebirds are gone.  And Philosophy so far is tritely common sensical (though common sense it seems is fairly rare).

I am not a writer of nonfiction; well yes, I write it but as a work in itself it would never be considered to be worth the effort…or maybe just it is too close.  The stream of consciousness style of Faulkner’s Fury takes getting used to, yet while I could not compare myself to the writings of Faulkner, recognize the concept interspersed within two years of Spinning posts.  It’s just that not only do I think in mostly complete sentences, but would be haunted by the white-faced black-cowled ghosts of my parochial schooling were I to dangle my participles or wander off in…but how can she do that?  how can that be just?

Symbols–and this is part of the argument against existence of a Supreme Being (Lord, they’ll never leave me to peace–I cannot withhold capitalization)–are created in the mind of man as hope or doom.  It’s why for most my life I disperse in twosies, right and left, both dolls sitting facing out.  Why it would kill me to walk out of the house with one black, one navy sock.  And why it shows in writing.

(NOTE:  Within the last thirty seconds, while waiting for this post to save I checked my e-mail to find a message from Amazon suggesting THIS as my next choice for reading.  Coincidence?  Or a sign?)