Moonlight confuses the roosters, oddly. Narrative is what emerges when we perceive loss and need a bridge. At 4 a.m. the rain has an odd, a sort of ammonia smell to it. Once upon a time a man without shoes began writing twenty sentences a day and I am, still.
The coffee grows cold while I search for the right word. We also project onto others ideals and that, too, is a form of attack. How busy one's brain can be, like a moth trying to understand the light for which it would die! I wanted to tell the woman at the co-op it was okay but didn't because I could see that opening my mouth - regardless of what came out - would only confirm for her that it was not okay, and might never be again.
Summer passes and one remembers older summers as a means of keeping time. Sparse bluets near the stone wall and chunks of enviable quartz. I am never not in the mind of oxen. Writing projects that cannot be completed in a matter of hours confuse me and always have.
Perhaps one day we will meet in a yarn store. I am less impressed with the interstate highway system than some people I know. The dog studies the rainy window, her mind drifting to an intensity I can barely imagine. Some women say yes, that's all.
Resisting Christ by loving Jesus. One studies their need to be right and comes to a god that doesn't want to be seen. Minor arpeggios, rose petals, breasts. The morning hour stultifies, and once again the prayerless men ascend their humming gallows.
I love that last paragraph, Sean. Read it over and over. Something about those sentences together...ReplyDelete
And would like to get to that place where my yes doesn't more often than not have a "but" after it. :)
Hope you are enjoying your summer. It astonishes me how September still feels likes the start of something new.
Thanks for the kind words, Cheryl . . . I hear you on the qualified "yes . . .ReplyDelete
I'm good - hope you are as well -