I’ve been jonesing to do something I’m proud of. My kids are putting a pressure on me to write, for myself. Not a real pressure because they don’t know what they are talking about. but still. Lately, I am able to get my daughter to her soccer practice and she wants me to sit there while she practices. I think it is inane to do that, but whatever. Seems I am one of very few who likes to drop and run. So, I sat down with a neil gaiman book, Neverwhere, which is good. He has a lovely style which manages to be clean and clear while covering dark and fantastical things. the details are astonishing. I enjoy.
But my attention span is not what it used to be, and sometimes I check my phone or look at my kid, and once, i had some thoughts that were so intriguing I thought to write them down. SO i hunted through my pocketbook *(what a dumb word. no book involved, and no pocket either) for a pen and a blank scrap and by the time I got that all settled, I couldn’t remember what I’d been thinking. So, I wrote this instead:
The way other people write; slow, thought-filled, raising images of tall trees in clusters, the dips in green shadow and oaken thrills. Deepened thoughts, greens mixed with blues of deepest unseen oceans, softness beyond despair but knowing it, having passed it by.
Handwriting swirls and curves. Steam from the hot mug, adding to the air, and realizing that I do too, steam, and add, even though I am not those other people.
The steps of a sun-blast grecian stone, heading upwards, fingers trailing along the wall, thousands before me, all of humanity it feels.
Oh, how I wonder when I will travel again, if i will.
caves and shadows, cold stone and damp. fire. whispers. nudges. heat making curls,
the drawl of ink.
love you. do.