At Least Involve Some Risk

First make coffee, then get dressed. Sunlight, birds. My favorite color has always been blue, all its varieties. As a child I was often looking up at - or drifting through - the sky. Is this a coincidence?

Jeremiah yesterday: "because is the reason."

For two days now the words "bolster" and "lobster" - both favorites - linger upstairs, like dogs waiting to be fed. The "b" and "l" doing a sort of slinky disco. Again the wind, but this time lower, like blankets rustling or a sheet of old paper slowing tearing. Certain correspondences I dread, while others are barely noticeable.

Yesterday, the blue wicker vase I gave Chrisoula maybe ten years ago turned up in a corner dusty and filled with rocks. Also shells and two feathers. The kids and I made two piles - one, the larger one, to be returned to the brook later. The second, keepers, smaller, to help hold down the house, and also our stories.

Have the twenty sentences run their course - not these per se but the bigger effort of which they're a part? One asks because really. Or can I take all day to come up with them. Or maybe do them at night, which would at least involve some risk because of how different the demands on my time and body are then.

Or maybe go back to Mathews - the generative force. Just slow down, write, "genius" or what anybody thinks be damned.