My Village

“Carl, you’re really starting to piss me off!”

The words shouldered aside the gentle hubbub of street noise. They surprised me, taking a pinching hold of my ear and jerking my head around. I didn't recognize the voice, nor did I know anyone named "Carl" who might live in the little village. Obviously I had been away for too long - at least two new residents had slipped in during my absence.

The rest of the crowd around me was familiar, if oddball. A few citizens of a fictional Arizona town nodded and smiled in my direction, but the genetically-engineered, superhuman space-warriors and the heavily-armed wolfriders from some fantasy world ignored me completely in favor of menacing each other with dark glares. I was suddenly jostled sideways by a wave of folks trying to avoid ending up under the feet (or worse) of a passing pair of dragons, who, for reasons only dragons might know, had chosen to walk rather than fly.

To my left, down an alleyway I had never explored, a sudden rattle of gunfire provided a surprisingly fitting syncopation to the odd music snaking smoke-like from an upstairs window ahead of me. A trio of poets finishing each others' couplets, and Three-Fingers McCoy, an old blues-singer, added lyrics to the strange mix.

All of the buildings lining the streets boasted fresh paint - not in single colors, but in wild murals ranging from photographic to abstract. An industrious crew of finger-sized gardeners tended a collection of bonsai growing in front of a restaurant that served such delights as Mexican black beans and blue corn in coconut curry over wild rice.

Fishermen and koi-fanciers sat discussing the merits of fish as either food or pets. Over their heads stretched the shade of diverse trees hailing from far-flung deserts, forests and jungles alike - not to mention quite a few from places no one could name. And not too surprisingly, some of these latter trees talked among themselves, gesturing emphatically or gently, as the tone of their conversation required.

And sitting all alone in the grassy-green of a little park, an odd man conversed with himself in many different voices. I've heard him many times - he endlessly insists to himself and anyone else who will listen that God is wild, unfettered and uncontrollable. His concept of God neatly excludes him from attaining the title of theologian. Not that he cares.

This odd little village, of course, lives only in my imagination, but every resident, every tree, every sound, every painting, right down to every dish on the menu of every restaurant, represents a tale that I would love to tell. Even Carl and his anonymous antagonist. And the number of unshared stories is growing - again, consider Carl and whoever it was that he might have pissed-off.

And I worry that I might not be taking proper care of the village, that I don't lavish enough attention upon its denizens. I’m afraid that if I don’t write about them, they’ll someday pack up and move away, looking for a place where they’re better cared-for.

It isn't just that I would miss their company, although I certainly would. There are other unsettling matters to consider. Much as I like everyone in my village, there are plenty of folks in there who wouldn’t be above carting-off more cargo than they actually own. In fact, I would have concerns about anything that’s not nailed-down tightly. And in my head, that’s a lot of stuff.

Besides that, I worry about who might move in to take their place. I’m really comfortable with the Eddy Campbells and Lacey Thompsons and even the Wild-God Guy. I’d hate to find a crop of lima-bean tenants growing where right now I’ve got sweet-corn. Or, worst-of-all, I'd hate to drop in for a visit and find only a ghost town.

And that, in a nutshell (or maybe a nutcase) is why I want to take my writing career to another level.