Spilt Salt
9/14/02
Instead of a "to go" cup I am drinking my magic elixir, put me in the write mood, cappuccino from a mug. More like a beer mug than a coffee mug.
A mother is playing peek a boo with her daughter. Why do such simple joys have to slip away? Why do we have to get used to things? Perhaps waking up each day with no memory of the previous day would be a good thing. Everything would be new, fresh, and full of delight. Seeing a sun beam creep in under the window shade for the first time again, watching the dust motes swirl around in the stream of air made by your exploring hand, getting up from bed and feeling the covers fall away and the coolness of the morning against your skin, wondering who was the marvelous creature that says, "Jack, what are you doing?" and you answering back in words as if you had not ever said them, "Good morning, the day is a newly born baby." You would even feel the physical nature to the words as you say them as if for the first time. "Good" Feel your tongue go to the bottom of your mouth to form 'g', the expulsion of air as you form 'oo' and finally the clicking of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "D." Wait, wait... Isn't that what a writer is supposed to do... form a new world, show it in a different way? Anna tell me if that is the way of a visual artist. You show things in a different way. Novels are appropriately named. See these people and their conflicts in a novel way.
When I came here today, I thought, ‘I have nothing to say today, I am tired, cutting the lawn and whacking the weeds left me as limp as the lawn in a drought and worse my back aches. Pains can drag you from the place you need to be to write. What will I write in my journal? Then the mother's peek a boo and off I am on some thought holy grail or as I have said almost every time I write these journals... it is the cappuccino. No matter. What ever it is that keeps me tapping away on these keys is a good thing. Let my mind wander on whatever path it can. It is such a feeling of being alive. Off to read a bit.
What if someday by some mysterious and mischievous act of fate, only your words were found by future anthropologist. What a thought this is! I want to throw my words into an incinerator, mash them until the a’s and z's look like underlines. Nothing I write is dredged up from the collective unconscious, formed from the primal soup of the universe, or spun from the gold of genius and therefore not worth future recognition. So why write? Because it is a way to feel alive.
Spilt Salt
His hand tried to touch mine
Across the table
After he confessed
He no longer loved me
Salt shaker in the path
The salt spilled
He put some in his hand
And tossed it across his shoulder
I fell feint, whack
Crystal light arcing
Freshly salted burning wounds
Falling, falling for him, from him
Whiff of wake me up something
"Are you ok?"
"Goodbye"
Spilt salt tears
Instead of a "to go" cup I am drinking my magic elixir, put me in the write mood, cappuccino from a mug. More like a beer mug than a coffee mug.
A mother is playing peek a boo with her daughter. Why do such simple joys have to slip away? Why do we have to get used to things? Perhaps waking up each day with no memory of the previous day would be a good thing. Everything would be new, fresh, and full of delight. Seeing a sun beam creep in under the window shade for the first time again, watching the dust motes swirl around in the stream of air made by your exploring hand, getting up from bed and feeling the covers fall away and the coolness of the morning against your skin, wondering who was the marvelous creature that says, "Jack, what are you doing?" and you answering back in words as if you had not ever said them, "Good morning, the day is a newly born baby." You would even feel the physical nature to the words as you say them as if for the first time. "Good" Feel your tongue go to the bottom of your mouth to form 'g', the expulsion of air as you form 'oo' and finally the clicking of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "D." Wait, wait... Isn't that what a writer is supposed to do... form a new world, show it in a different way? Anna tell me if that is the way of a visual artist. You show things in a different way. Novels are appropriately named. See these people and their conflicts in a novel way.
When I came here today, I thought, ‘I have nothing to say today, I am tired, cutting the lawn and whacking the weeds left me as limp as the lawn in a drought and worse my back aches. Pains can drag you from the place you need to be to write. What will I write in my journal? Then the mother's peek a boo and off I am on some thought holy grail or as I have said almost every time I write these journals... it is the cappuccino. No matter. What ever it is that keeps me tapping away on these keys is a good thing. Let my mind wander on whatever path it can. It is such a feeling of being alive. Off to read a bit.
What if someday by some mysterious and mischievous act of fate, only your words were found by future anthropologist. What a thought this is! I want to throw my words into an incinerator, mash them until the a’s and z's look like underlines. Nothing I write is dredged up from the collective unconscious, formed from the primal soup of the universe, or spun from the gold of genius and therefore not worth future recognition. So why write? Because it is a way to feel alive.
Spilt Salt
His hand tried to touch mine
Across the table
After he confessed
He no longer loved me
Salt shaker in the path
The salt spilled
He put some in his hand
And tossed it across his shoulder
I fell feint, whack
Crystal light arcing
Freshly salted burning wounds
Falling, falling for him, from him
Whiff of wake me up something
"Are you ok?"
"Goodbye"
Spilt salt tears
posted by Kajgreb | 1:51 PM
2 Comments:
What if someday by some mysterious and mischievous act of fate, only your words were found by future anthropologist. What a thought this is!
you know this is one of my most nonsensical fears - not an anthropologist but somebody - a relative - a nosy busybody after the funeral digging away in my mountains and mountains of spiral bound notebooks reading those little thoughts to myself. I keep thinking one day I am going to burn them all - just in case - but then I think, nah i can last another few years - I'll think about it next week/month/year.
Did I ever tell you as well as being lazy I am a procrastinator/
HAH
and yes a visual artist is the same - show the same old stuff in a different way.
salt, i write about salt often
spilled salt - stars on my table
Jack,you amaze me.
These rambling thoughts have really made me think.
This is g oo d.
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