Author: wordstopaige

soon, the small insect will move, leaving its footprints in the dust of the windowsill. Footprints no human will ever see.

In the mean time the dreamer will carry on wandering the labyrinth of memory.                Oblivious to the drone of the refrigerator.

she stares out the window at the dead bird in the garden – but also not.

Why does the blinding white light of high noon look so cold yet burn your skin. While the golden tones of dusk feel so warm to the eye yet cold to the touch?

Has the dead bird’s soul departed? Is it wings that carried it away?

Where would it go?

If I were a soul of a bird, able to fly anywhere I please, I would choose the very garden that I died in.

What do you think brought the bird here in the first place?

no time like the present to forget the past.

You didn’t script what’s already happened, so why must you pretend you’re writing what’s going to happen next?

Put

down

the

pen.

And dance dance dance 🙂

Dear cold in my head

Your gift is my gratitude

for when you are elsewhere.

hearing the rush of a bird’s wings through the air, the sensual softness of his cat’s fur under his fingertips, the ringtone of his lover chiming loudly on his phone, biting into a perfectly ripe persimmon, the feel of the salt sea spray hitting his face, sinking into a hot tub slowly after a long walk on a snowy day, Louis Armstrong’s “It’s a wonderful world” playing on the radio, hearing his grandchildren laugh, Listening to Robin Williams live at Madison Square Garden, the sip of an expensive Bordeaux cross his tongue, the moments in between wakefulness and sleep, the vivid images in his dreams, a kind word, holding hands, a dog’s lick upon his hand

A potato and 15 minutes gets you this:

Liminal, Limerick, Linear, Laugh

Could it be an alien with a long pointy hat and a dimple that suggested a pout?

Pickles, Penuckle, Precipitous, Pearl

Would it be a manatee with a bulbous body and wrinkly, crusty old snout?

Gather, Gauffaw, Gratuitous, Gout.

Should it be a thing of Irish nightmares? Or possibly a reason for the French to buy salt?

Silly, Starch, Succotash, Sasquatch

May we slash it, and mash it, and slather it with goop?

Bubble, Bauble, Bodacious, Buick

I guess we put the peels out in the chicken coop?

Doodle, Dickens, Darkly, Doug

Do we dice it and spice it and put it in soup?

Fickle, Funnel, Freakily, Fantastic

Maybe we just use is as fodder in our writing group.

what would you do with

too much to remember with

time

with nothing but

time

with nothing

but

Bitchy old lady – “Your mother was a kind, loving woman. You really missed out by not speaking to her for 20 years. I think you’re terrible for abandoning such a lovely lady. How could you do that? Your own mother for gosh sakes!”

Me – “Listen lady, I didn’t speak to my own mother for 20 years, what makes you think I’ll spend 20 seconds speaking to you?”

Exit left.

-Why won’t a narcissist ever to go to Alcoholics Anonymous?

Because they’d rather die than be anonymous.

– A Narcissist Anonymous group would only happen if they misheard the invite as Narcissist Almost Famous!

– Narcissism and exorcism?

Either one, you can’t wait to get them out of the fucking room.

This writer’s block sucks dirt. I’d rather be outside with a dog, or actually anywhere with a dog. I need a dog.

I’m so uncomfortable. So much painful movement. I don’t know if its because I’m opening, the expansion pulling on the gristle of my flesh grown tough and ropey by life; or if I’m closing, reality crushing down upon all of the dreams and optimism that was just here a minute ago, but are suddenly gone – like my dog.

Anais Nin said that there comes a time when the pain of not blossoming becomes worse than staying bound tightly in a bud.

Or some fucking thing like that.

It all sounds lovely, but she forgot to mention the excruciating time just before the balance tips. The limbo when you’re experiencing both, equally.

Pushing, resisting, neither strong enough to sway the other.

What now, Anais? It must be easy for you to say, you get through it by smoking cigarettes and fucking Henry, by being a tragic drama queen.

It doesn’t matter.  I have to get up and go to work, feeling like the dog in the diner. What’s wrong with this picture?

Note: I just remembered that is was Doris Lessing who said she had written two novels, two awful novels, before her first good one. If she can write a bunch of crap, so can I.

Recent medicine vision – I was feeling so ungrounded, lost really, looking for some sort of ‘title’ or identity to help me focus on what work I was to do in the world. If I was trained as a lawyer or an accountant, at least I could narrow the playing field and know where to focus my attention. I would just go be that, and not be confused, so diffused, so lost. The vision then showed me that I am a “that” if I want to be, I’m a writer. Everything I’ve done has trained me to be a writer. My education, my hobbies, my interests, everything. The simple fact is I’ve chosen not to do it. Since I was a child I’ve completely distracted myself and turned away from the true calling I’ve been craving, I’ve been carved out to do. Literally, my life has been one massive, excruciating case of writer’s block. There isn’t one thing I’ve done that isn’t simply an avoidance of expressing myself.

That’s why today all I’m going to do is write around the block. I’m not going to move it, or rise above it, or even try to pretend it’s gone. Lazy, tired, busy, anxious, scared, ashamed, whatever, I’m just going to write anyway.