I cannot live to write, though it may appear that way at times.
The ordinary.
The common times.
Drudgery and duty.
Things I do when no one is watching, those are the seeds of my prose or poetry.
Every conversation, every birdsong, oh, remember that glimmer of joy on the mud puddle, the snarl of emotion flung at you, all the goodness and badness in me, it gathers. Congeals…
… in drawers.
Drawers stuffed full of words scribbled on napkins; phrases scribbled dangerously in the car while driving home that are meant to remind me how an evening skyline feels like your voice; little narratives of surprise, you know, crepuscular rays.
Torn scraps of paper that mark events, ticket stubs from life…
…that’s the nest.
Every now and then I pull out a shred of paper to see if there is any truth to be found.
Have you ever thought about how poetry is about truth telling? Let your mind spin on that thought for a while…
How do shreds of life turn into that embryo?
That mystery is the magnetism of writing. We’ll have to speak more about this…
Meanwhile, there’s this little miracle:
*
Thank you, Laurie, for being part of this with me. Those small voids you speak of, Ruach. YES YES YES.
"ticket stubs from life . . . that's the nest . . ." This line feels so true to me I could weep. Maybe truth always hits me in a blow-to-the-solar-plexus way, the nonsense within knocked sideways even as Ruach whispers into the small void left behind the blow
Slender Warble enacts a similar ballet of breath in me, page after page . . .