Warm weather love
My brain doesn't feel so awfully clogged today. I feel like I have some freedom. Astrud Gilberto is on Pandora, Lane put himself down for a nap, Colt is out stacking rocks-
There is momentary bliss. Everything feels good- spring is coming!
Before winter, there is this feeling of making it out alive, of just surviving through the cold and the late dark days and early dark nights. But then in March the windows start to open and the stuck air flies out, replaced by a breeze and everything starts to smell better and feel better. My coffee isn't a way through, it's a compliment to the morning, and there is SUNSHINE!
What words come from this place? They start here, a proud poem.
The only feedback I've ever gotten about my work is how heavy it is. "It's like life or death" or "this is more violent than I expected". My own writer-mother said White hurt her to read. Did I miss the mark entirely or do it just right? When I read it, I'm ashamed but only because I feel ashamed of everything I call finished. Words have always felt heavy to me, everything written or said sinks.
Anyway- there's no use thinking about it now. Know, dear readers, that I don't always live the way I write. I try to keep a positive view and trust everyone and am bright for Lane all of the time and love the sun and heat and Colt and living. If I'm cynical with my pen it's because balance is the most important thing.
Today I enjoyed the sunshine, tried to view a house to make an offer only to find out it's under contract, and took a nap with this sweet sweet bean, reveling in the start of spring.
There is momentary bliss. Everything feels good- spring is coming!
Before winter, there is this feeling of making it out alive, of just surviving through the cold and the late dark days and early dark nights. But then in March the windows start to open and the stuck air flies out, replaced by a breeze and everything starts to smell better and feel better. My coffee isn't a way through, it's a compliment to the morning, and there is SUNSHINE!
What words come from this place? They start here, a proud poem.
The only feedback I've ever gotten about my work is how heavy it is. "It's like life or death" or "this is more violent than I expected". My own writer-mother said White hurt her to read. Did I miss the mark entirely or do it just right? When I read it, I'm ashamed but only because I feel ashamed of everything I call finished. Words have always felt heavy to me, everything written or said sinks.
Anyway- there's no use thinking about it now. Know, dear readers, that I don't always live the way I write. I try to keep a positive view and trust everyone and am bright for Lane all of the time and love the sun and heat and Colt and living. If I'm cynical with my pen it's because balance is the most important thing.
Today I enjoyed the sunshine, tried to view a house to make an offer only to find out it's under contract, and took a nap with this sweet sweet bean, reveling in the start of spring.
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