Autumn

Friday the 13th

here is an unedited free writing piece I wrote today 10/13/2006 10/13/06 Freewriting the words tumble down the rocky slope of my mind. In each sq inch of mind the words stop, hit a giganticus boulder of unformed, poorly formed, amorphous ideas They stumble on the if onlys. If only I had started this journey earlier, if only I had more talent, if only I had read more, if only I had a brain, if only I wasn't so easily distracted (the scarecrow song ray bolger voice wizard of Oz sounds go through my head), if only I wasn't so tired after work, if only I had more time, if only I wasn't so lazy, if only I had studied harder. I reach a stream of consciousness and plunge in. Headlong rushing into swirling swishing swilling spilling cool water realizing that I have broken into the strange creative world that so rarely visits me. I ride along. Catch on to a newly fallen, brilliantlyy yellow maple leaf that comes to the waterfall and suddenly I am airborn. and floating. Frogs serenade me froom below. Hawks think I am a small finch and I in a blast of old ocean liner fog horn blow hawk feathers into chief pantahawks head. I land in the Indian village. The chief welcomes me with great sweeps of his hands and offers me a peace pipe. I smoke and night falls. Stars flicker. The fire flares up and sparks rise up and I ride on one of the rockets red glare. to the moon, Alice. I meet the white rabbit and we're late. I eat the date and ride a camel. I wonder if this is a bicameral or a unicameral. I walk a mile for the camel. And now I pause from this avalanche of words or do I afraid that this great tumbling of monkey on a typewriter will stop and the excitement of the moment of tapping into this well of words will stop and some one will put their thumb into the dike and no more words will pour forth in this rush of free writing. I feel exhilirated. I do not want to stop. My speed on the typewriter is unparralled. My leg is whirling under the Panera table hitting the under booth tap tap. the sound of coffee brewing, newspaper turning, ice tumbling into cups, bagels cutting, unheard talking. like in a foreigh language, sun streaming like the hands on the clock "Jo do you want to sit here,without the sun in your eyes" indecition on their minds... their words starting totake me out of this stream. I take a sip of coffee.
I am exhausted, exhilerated. I read what I wrote above and wonder if it was me or was I possessed. When the muse or the bemuse strikes, I think maybe I have something. Is it possible for the non reader to write? I only know that I love to write because it makes me feel alive. "Getting and spending we lay waste our powers. 'Is that something from the bible? I wonder if the materialist, capitalist society is the best? Have the pursuit of things added to my life? I am full of questions this morning.
I don't want to go home, cut the grass, mail the packages, put up the fans. I want to sit here and watch the mother and her young girl sit close all their body language facing each other. the daughter, cells dividing, nearly a blur of motion.
I think my 10 minutes of free writing time has expired long ago

Autumn

11 11 2002
The trees in one last best burst of beauty,
orange bleeding off to red,
the leaves most beautiful before their death,
the trees to sleep.
The brook folds
and speaks with quite voice
who sits by my side on such a day?

Magic Day
The day started badly. I felt sick, bloated, the bags under my eyes were dark, puffy and I had a rare headache. In the mirror I saw a face which looked like a troop of ducks left foot prints on my usually smooth skin. I hate when my expections of a beautiful sun filled, exploding color filled day are frustrated. . It was raining. So I paid the bills.

I went to Panera’s for coffee and a cinnamon bagel. I am glad Sammy is not reading this. New Yorker's would probably not approve of my order and especially not toasting it and slathering it with butter. I let the three advils and two cups of coffee drug me into thinking it was a good day and finished the book I was reading on my e bookman. I don't think I should tell you what book it was. I would hate to admit I liked this book set in PEI. I am sure Anna is sick of Anne. Hey it came with the e book man.
"Why did you read it?"
"It was Then I went to the Worthington farm, camera in hand, a blizzard of leaves floating down, an orange confection of trees to feast on. My finger twitching on the shutter, Anna, you must, like Jas and I get yourself a digital camera. I took a hundred and twelve shots. I'll try and pick the best to send with this.