Days to first day of school year: 3
Cups of coffee: 2
Pages written: 1
Books read: 1
Messy offices: 1
New staff ID cards: 1
Cash in pocket: $6
Trips to chiropractor: 1
The sky moves, clouds of white cappuccino foam, tinged with a blushing edge from the sun’s setting. My head is pounding from the constant bickering of Facebook messages and unsolicited Tweets from strangers. My plan is to expel myself from social media altogether, to abscond from the interwebs like some old dog ambling down a narrow road to find a place to rest. Safe in my own skin, I think, less panic than I ever want to deal with, that’s my goal. Rather than check-in addictively on phone or laptop, I choose to light a fire, crack the spine of a dusty book from my neglected shelves and pour myself a glass of red wine. The messages tell me we have a new civilization, a new way of connecting, a salesman’s pitch of a world to inhabit. No. No thanks. I’d rather listen to my own creaking bones, my settling body, and flow gently to the sea.
A broken slingshot. No bird struck, no stone in flight. Only the snapped arm thwarting any perceived damage. Behind a screen the shadow of a dead woman washes dishes at a sink. A curious paw print causes me to stop in my tracks and examine my surroundings for a small predator. Crickets stir and ask impossibly complex questions. Overhead, a distant plane writes letters in the sky. A pointless exercise as the sun goes down and wipes any understanding from view. Payment is due. I need help expressing my emotions. Funny, I always thought my maternal grandfather had a decent head of hair on him. Turns out he was balding from his mid-twenties. Can you see where this is going? A red light blinks, announcement of some intent. It goes unanswered. Sometimes, it’s better to turn the page and find out what happens next, and sometimes it’s best to place the bookmark in between those pages and run through some forgotten dance moves, unpracticed since childhood.
Read what writer, Amy Ferris, has to say about suicide and depression. There’s an open raw truth to how she writes. CLICK THE TITLE: The Balls Out Truth About Depression.
Delighted to find a fine review of Blood a Cold Blue at Up the Staircase Quarterly this weekend. Back in 2011, this was the venue for my first published piece of creative writing, “Bingo Night.” I’m grateful to April Michelle Bratten for launching my writing onto the waters and for the generous review of my collection.
‘The blown roses of a phrase shall catapult the reader into the tulips of the phrase that follows. The experience of my readers shall be between the phrases, in the silence, communicated by the intervals, not the terms, of the statement, between the flowers that cannot coexist, the antithetical’ (nothing so simple as antithetical) ‘seasons of words, his experience shall be the menace, the miracle, the memory, of an unspeakable trajectory.’ (Dream of Fair to Middling Women)
Thanks to Sheldon Lee Compton and Revolution John for featuring a piece about my workspace. You can read it HERE.