I can’t pinpoint when or where the thought planted itself, germinated, and flowered; but somewhere in my literary life, water factors in a significant way.
My bones acknowledge it. I may not have been aware of it as a universal truth to my existence. Still, every fiber of my existence, every whiff of my breath from one black hair follicle to my toe’s cuticle must have known that I was born to write by a body of water.
Something about that magnetic liquid invigorates my gray cells, activates my creativity to a most forceful recognition, and transforms my visions into creations better than my wildest imagination.
I have watched Something’s Gotta Give numerous times to the point that I wore out my first DVD and bought a new one. The house in that movie hits me anew each time. I saw my life as it should be in that movie and salivate over it.
My recognition and acceptance of my brain’s obsession with a body of water stood front and center on the shore featured in SGG. I thought I was alone in my obsession of this house by the ocean until I performed a search and discovered that every man and woman with refined taste have drooled over the scenes involving the house located on Martha’s Vineyard.
Yahoo pulled up over four hundred, thirty-one million hits. The result shows I am not the only drooler of both the interior and the grounds. But since this post is about the backyard’s effect on me, I will focus on it and force myself to ignore that indescribable house as much as my heart bleeds for the neglect.
The fact that I grew up about thirty miles from the Atlantic Ocean on the south side of Nigeria does not factor much in this under-the-radar allegiance to a river. I drove over bridges from Aba to Port-Harcourt uncountable times, but I don’t recall setting foot on any of Atlantic Ocean’s inlets in Port-Harcourt. Such proximity guaranteed us fresh edibles from the ocean. That much I remember.
When I sit by a river, as happened recently by the Chattahoochee, my words take on an elevated form of profoundness with the gliding of each soft tide. My thoughts converge and diverge and achieve effortless uniformity with the river’s collective flow. Something about a river channels my thoughts, massages my scalp, and allows it to produce cerebrations that accentuate every feeling.
I dream without end about that house (or my own seaside abode) with me planted where Diane Keaton sat and with a perfect view of my muse: ocean or river. I need a house by a body of water because something about a river opens my brain to pour out some of the most iridescent pieces I have ever composed.
I need a house by the river whose graceful and gentle nature ebbs and flows with the lyrics in my outpouring. A lake will stifle that efflorescence like plants lacking water and sun. River courses through my veins causing the meshing and the blending of unique creations. I need a house by a river.