He wakes up, starts writing. Pisses, makes coffee and starts writing. The blackbirds are chasing the crows away. Twenty sentences was supposed to be like stretching but instead are like windows. Writing them is like spitting on a dusty pane, pulling your sleeve up, rubbing with your fist. What do you see through the smear. The crows, those thieves, those swooping laughing stealers. Well, everybody needs to eat, everybody needs to die. Why do I care? What does it matter? But I do. I pull for the blackbirds.
Try what he is now characterizing as "the accusatory first person." Write the stories as if you're composing a brief for some heavenly tribunal. Imagine you are weighing in on the judgment of other souls. Yesterday, for example, I nearly bought a much-needed loft for the tumblers, then didn't because of the cost. Yet to make up for the inevitable primal filial disappointment we had ice cream on a park bench in the late Spring sunlight, a family.
And now a goldfinch settles on the lilac just a few feet away (seen of course through a window). Growing up, those lemonyellow fliers were everywhere, flitting like bananas through the dense tangled underbrush. You can be scholastically obsessed with birds or religiously so and I, perhaps not unsurprisingly at this point, opt for the latter.
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