“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

4.24.2012

when in doubt, just look around & write


a.m.:  i am shaky this morning, my hair needs washing, life moves forward, skye cat comes in and finds the perfect spot on the unmade bed, breakfast was the last of the tuna salad, a mockingbird laughs at me, the house is cold, april too cool, and summer will change my mind.  the keyboard calls me, the sunshine calls me, the shower calls me, work calls me, the pain in my right leg has my number memorized, i ignore the phone. the tick of the clock is loud against the day, loud against the refrigerator's hum.  the jingle belle cat rushes in, a white streak to the kitchen, eats, skedaddles back into daydreams.

it may be writer's block after all, so i just type down the day to remind my fingers.

afternoon:  sunshine everywhere but the house is still cool.  we buy burgers for lunch & bring them home and they accidentally have onions; i never eat raw onions but they taste so good i gobble them down, there are just a few, and never mind how full i am, i have a banana for dessert.  the smell reminds me of school lunches in brown paper bags and those nickel cartons of milk, and i wonder why we never worried that the sandwiches weren't refrigerated, that the bologna or tuna might go bad before lunchtime, but we never did and they never did and i figure it's probably because we didn't have facebook to open every morning, posts whimpering that the water will kill us, coca-colas will kill us, this food will kill us, that  food will kill us, and i decide that ignorance may be bliss after all.  skye cat is in and out, jingle belle is nowhere to be seen, the ever-wonderful michael turns the tv to the nfl station, sound down, and i kindle up the book about thomas jefferson we are reading.

late afternoon/early evening:  a stuck car horn loud here on this downtown street and no one knows what to do but the ever-wonderful, who is a phone call gone, but as he tells me check the fuses,  a man walks up and does just that.  us women had not a clue, and that's the truth, but if laughter would've worked, we had plenty of that.

p.m.:  not quite yet here.  lily cat sleeps on the chair and home is calling me.  my toes are chilly in flipflops and pink polish.  life moves foward and lily wakes.

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12 comments:

  1. a year from now, i will be so glad i wrote this. :)

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  2. right now. I am so glad you wrote this.

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  3. y'all are as crazy as me. i like that. :)

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  4. me, too (three?). glad, and crazy :)

    that doesn't look anything at all like a block to me... i always love your descriptions of life, always fresh, always beautiful.

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  5. I'm a fan here, but I never comment because I never want to break the spell of what I've just read and besides I never know what to say about your wonderful words - they are placed so well, but after reading this and then reading Michael's comment, he said exactly what I was thinking, so I just wanted you to know. I'm also very glad you wrote it too.

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  6. Love it, and this is something I am going to do the next time I sit down here and no words or images come to mind or fingers. Very cool, Deb!

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  8. your blatant and cynical honesty: it tells me i'm only human.
    so good to know the insanity and the blocks are just "part of"....

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  9. ..."he tells me to check the fuses". what fuses? i didn't know my truck HAD fuses, and would not have any clue where to look. i have found, however, standing and looking pathetic works wonders to get help.
    great write, emmatree.
    in fondest. t.

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  10. I love the way scent brings back memory and emotion. You capture it so perfectly.

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  11. doesn't seem like a writers block to me. i love this kind of writing you do. your thought process on paper (screen)
    yesterday the scent of honeysuckle took me back to childhood. i love that it does that.

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