Pilot gutters, then
blows out. Solitude, the spark
that quickens me.
A little surprised at how long it’s taking me to come back to center after a weekend full of company. Either I am so often alone that I’ve lost the ability to have groups around me, or I’m just so often calm that the hyped up emotions of wanting to make sure that Everything Is Perfect have just wrung me out. A combination of both, plus being on my feet for most of twelve hours, cooking like a fiend. Oh, well, at least my brain is still plugged in.
This month a group of reporters and therapists are coming to our chorus to interview various members and ask why they sing… the idea being that they know it’s good for us, but want specifics on individual hows/whys. I hope they don’t ask me, but I can say that singing always puts me in a good mood. Unless our Dictator Director harangues us too much, chorus is a joy. But, even then:
Savagery soothed, Beasts,
civil, sup upon love’s food.
Play it again, Sam.
And to those who have listened to my flailing and wailing this past week on the bewildering question of screenplays and tokens and other such randomness, thank you. You are my Brain Trust, and my pull-it-over-my-head-and-shut-it-all-out blanket, and apparently also the rest of my naptime set…
A firm pillow, they
Let me rest, but not slouch down.
My best self forward.
I keep meaning to get better about posting these things on a daily basis, but that doesn’t happen. A si es la vida. I’m pleased to be writing daily – not necessarily well, but daily. The haiku thing is catching; I find myself turning over syllables in my head about the smallest things: my violet is blooming (happy dance, happy dance), an ink scribble over the shape of a dragon from my two-year-old Japanese correspondent, Sora (the child of friends, obviously; he’s not up to reaching the post office on his own just yet), the surprising discovery of raisins in the gigantic chocolate egg our friend Thing 1 brought us. (Tech Boy is Thing 2… never mind.) Everything is a song, a poem, a symphony.
And it is all waiting to be written. Like my novels. So, back to it.