Moments in Time | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Moments in Time | Previous Challenge Entry
By Donald Ortolano
01/12/07
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I do not recall exactly when I first became infatuated with the thought of being a writer. I know I was relatively young, perhaps eleven years old.

It was a paradox growing up in what was then known as “Hells Kitchen” in New York City. (As a side note, I could not begin to afford the rent in the trendy condo’s and apartments that now surround the housing project where I was raised).
A paradox because it was not a safe place for a kid who was not considered “tough”, which I certainly was not at age eleven. Conversely, not a far walk from the projects was Greenwich Village, a bastion for the arts. I gravitated there; to the small streets that were amazingly, still tree lined in many places. The street artists, who to this day, display their paintings and sculptures on the sidewalk, made one feel artistic, even at that young age. On a warm spring day, one could listen to the mournful sounds of lonely musicians, talented beyond imagination, yet, somehow lost amongst the masses.

But, it was the poets who drew me. Those bearded young men in tweed jackets and black turtle necked shirts, who would recite their work to no one in particular, and to everyone who bothered to stop and listen. I always stopped. I would long to be old enough to enjoy the black coffee they sipped from tin cups, or the cigarettes that dangled from their lips as they contemplated their next verse. They enthralled me, and while I usually did not understand the meanings of the poems, I knew they were original, written by these unique men and women in black. Many would smile at me, undoubtedly amused at the way I stared, the meaning of their words a clear mystery to me. One of these troubadours once inquired if I enjoyed poetry. I responded with a brilliant, well thought out; “I don’t know”. He dropped a long ash from his unfiltered cigarette and chuckled. “Well he said, at least you’re more honest than most folks who stop and listen to me”. I had no idea what he meant.

One rain-washed day, I was strolling down McDougal Street when I spied my amused friend. I walked over to where he sat under the cover of an apartment building overhang. He was jotting things down in a well-worn notebook. At first he took no notice of me, then glanced again, and with a smirk of recognition he simply stated “ Ah, my poetry critic” Not knowing quite what to say, I asked him what he was doing. He took a long look at me, smiled again and said, “I’m creating”. Naturally, I was confused and he could easily see it in my eyes. He put down his pencil and placed the notebook in the breast pocket of his jacket, which carried the distinct aroma of damp wool. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and spoke, though, today I’m not certain if it was to me, or to unseen memories. The exact words he spoke are very dim to me now, but I clearly remember his message.
“When one expresses beauty and emotions such as fear and love through the written word, one creates new worlds. These worlds exist in ones imagination… they exist in ones memory. Memories that can only be re-lived via the written word.”

When he completed his statement he looked directly at me, though his eyes were definitely in one of the worlds he had spoken of. “Create”, he said…. “Capture every vivid color and aroma on paper. Make people feel your world, share your memory”.

With that, he sighed, crushed out his cigarette, got up and walked off. “See ya’ around” was all he said to me.
I never did see him again, though I looked for him every time I was in “The Village”

Now, this would be a great story if his words had been the catalyst for a great and successful writing career, but alas, that is not the case.

Many years have past, and my attempts at finding joy in writing ended in failure.

It was the words of my unnamed friend from Greenwich Village that finally gave me the chance to feel the true joy of writing. I recalled what he had said about memories: “Create! Make others share your memory”. In penning these “Moments in Time” I have found what has eluded me for so long…joy.

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