standing still somewhere in the nowhere
focused on the nothing out there in the distance
across the water
under the sky
in the place of i didn't
i followed my muse into the deep part and floated, doing nothing, letting go, letting go.
i didn't write one word. i didn't paint.
it was exactly where i wanted to be.
not chasing my dreams,
i once knew a photographer who was a fabulous cook - i may have told you this before, how he made the best gumbo ever, how once michael and i sat in my november living room while it stormed and iced outside the walls, and dined on that gumbo - a gift of the very best kind - while george bailey's wonderful life played across the tv screen. those were the days when my tv was only black and white and tiny tiny, but it mattered not, i didn't care, i have memories of those days that are anything but. this gumbo, like i said, was the best ever, and every batch was the best, so good that people always told the cook he should give up photography, open a restaurant, he should sell that gumbo, he should something besides just cook it and eat it and give it away, and he would always shake his head no and reply that there once was a time when he liked taking pictures. and he would smile.