i'm a little broken this morning.
trying to figure out what i want to do, be, create out of this life i have. i played guitar for about an hour and sang this morning. it reminded me that i used to do this every day; that i was learning and writing, creating... the wooden body of the guitar singing meaning as i discovered the sounds that come from different play of strings.
i reread some of my blog, some of my unfinished short stories and remembered being driven to push the keys, spelling out a story, spilling out my soul.
i'm eating an artichoke for breakfast. i need to buy a new tire for my car. there's a bunch of essays and a couple of manuscripts that demand my editorial attention. the kitchen is aclutter with dishes, remnants of strawberries, a bag of spinach. the tomatoes are beginning the quick rush towards ruin. i think the girls and their mom might stop by. i need to clean. i spent money on more bath products. aunt jac is in town and i need to call her. my flowers are colorful, the jasmine fragrant, the neighbors likely just stirring from friday-evening-to-saturday-morn slumber...
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how is it that "how are you?" became our traditional greeting? people seldom want to hear an actual answer. the words don't really mean what they're supposed to mean in that setting. for some reason we ask a question that doesn't expect an answer, just to say hello and acknowledge each others' presence.
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prepare yourselves: here cometh the blog self-reflection. sweet lord i hate these.
i used to write with abandon, not realizing that it was an act of brazen trust. i'm not feeling so willing to be vulnerable like that right now. this morning's blah blah blah is just some spot of nostalgia for the space of time in which i could play with language, with my thoughts, etc. in this format.
my concern is that i've not replaced this with a different vehicle for expression, creation.
but don't worry. i'll figure it out.
----
i'm fine.
trying to figure out what i want to do, be, create out of this life i have. i played guitar for about an hour and sang this morning. it reminded me that i used to do this every day; that i was learning and writing, creating... the wooden body of the guitar singing meaning as i discovered the sounds that come from different play of strings.
i reread some of my blog, some of my unfinished short stories and remembered being driven to push the keys, spelling out a story, spilling out my soul.
i'm eating an artichoke for breakfast. i need to buy a new tire for my car. there's a bunch of essays and a couple of manuscripts that demand my editorial attention. the kitchen is aclutter with dishes, remnants of strawberries, a bag of spinach. the tomatoes are beginning the quick rush towards ruin. i think the girls and their mom might stop by. i need to clean. i spent money on more bath products. aunt jac is in town and i need to call her. my flowers are colorful, the jasmine fragrant, the neighbors likely just stirring from friday-evening-to-saturday-morn slumber...
----
how is it that "how are you?" became our traditional greeting? people seldom want to hear an actual answer. the words don't really mean what they're supposed to mean in that setting. for some reason we ask a question that doesn't expect an answer, just to say hello and acknowledge each others' presence.
----
prepare yourselves: here cometh the blog self-reflection. sweet lord i hate these.
i used to write with abandon, not realizing that it was an act of brazen trust. i'm not feeling so willing to be vulnerable like that right now. this morning's blah blah blah is just some spot of nostalgia for the space of time in which i could play with language, with my thoughts, etc. in this format.
my concern is that i've not replaced this with a different vehicle for expression, creation.
but don't worry. i'll figure it out.
----
i'm fine.
