Stillness is an ever absurd event. There is paralysis in stillness, and also landscape and surface and the smell of peas.
Yes. Peas.
The library is closed until Tuesday, but nothing closes sidewalks or hides the outside walls of buildings and the walking is pleasant. It is only a few blocks to the river and the lighthouse and the pier and the freezing plant for peas.
The experience of 'getting focused' is one that does not always take a whole lot of energy, but does take time and patience. I miss the writing of the last few years where words happened in a rhythm that led itself into images and impossibilities and ridiculous metaphors that required nothing more of me than my hands and a few bits of technological magic to share with the world, or whatever part of the world happened to land here for a while before heading off on stumble to some other set of recipes or book reviews or art work. It will not happen again simply because I wish it, and there is no magic spell that will turn the heartbeat back into a poetic foundation for the larger thoughts of the larger world that find such outlet in the marketplace of my inner mind and have such difficulty finding their feet in the air. Even in the air of typing.
Outside was damp. Cool and quiet. The whole town is shutting down for the weekend. Not just one day, but the whole weekend. I am unaccustomed to such diligence and find it more aggravating than I need. Next weekend sees Sputnikfest, Lobsterfest and the 9/11 Remembrance ceremony. Perhaps the town, not unlike the people in it, finds stillness in focus the way to face the days ahead.
As for me, I read.
I will grab my quote-book and add to its pages.
And occasionally find myself here, checking to see what Molly Crabapple is doing during her week in hell.
No comments:
Post a Comment