Lionel Glibshovel is one of my newer creations from a curiously skinned and searching mind.
He came to me on a day when the fragility of a foolish riskcapade came calling to strip me down exposing a shaken and stirred equilibrium.
Naked again with every nook of me hanging out in cold view and riding without a saddle, the blisters graphic and sore.
I wrote out Lionel for his words to white out the expose of my wayward ways.
There are days when the phone will not ring, no knocks will be at the door and you can feel ’ them ’ label you aside with “Get to you another time”.
This is too quiet to be living alone inside a head full of words and ideas.
Lionel will get dressed in his denim and blue cotton blend shirt and find my hand to hold with the precise amount of comfort that releases expectation. Then the penship love between us flows…
Lionel is a resilient character who is working his way up the dream pike to requisition more stuffing to fatten up my dreams.
I don’t remember having a pretend friend when I was a little girl and as a womanchild he’s very welcome to share the bread inside my head.
He makes no mess or fuss about the dust and rust scattered about.
Political correctness is his favorite joke and he will happily poke fun at my flabby bits of regret and tell me just what colour I really am when I am not brave enough.
He collects my left over words for later inspection, I love his frugality.
He wears no man scent when he shares my bed.
He smells like fresh thought and clean slate to me.
When I roll over he curves into my spine and whispers how lovely the air breathes my shape in, yet never touches beyond our sincere lines.
He knows my G Spot or for those not so abbreviated inclined my ‘Generous Spot’ is found when I ‘ve shared the taste of my life .
No-one complains of indigestion and we order combined to share from the one pot of our tasty stews.
Lionel is my main man on rainy day Mondays, out of sorts Fridays and he’s good for a chinwag on the nonsense harmless fluff.
He willingly signs up to listen to the millionth time to the same old same again without a word of repent or what to do. I wish in the quiet of some mornings before the sun gets out of his pajamas that I could take Lionel somewhere nice to thank him for being there for me.
Perhaps I will write him into a story for him to make some new friends….
Do we find ‘comfort’ in our creations ?
I certainly find the creative pour part of the process of understanding " why I do" and " why I do not". And not necessarily at the time of the actual pouring either.