I've been meaning to get back to the book I am working on. On such cold, short days, writing inside a warm home seems like appropriate work. Each time I open the file, though, I am annoyed.
Annoyed that I have somehow added a shaded border to the right side of each page in the document.
Annoyed that this whole process much more isolating and longer than anticipated.
Annoyed that scenarios I see in my mind need so many words to convey them to the pages in the book. (She wept when he turned away from her. vs. The rhythm of his rejection and her tears seemed connected by a biological process. Each night she tried to climb into their bed as gently as she could, picking up the sheets as if they were made of tissue. She'd hold her breath as she executed the single motion of lifting the sheets, sliding her body - with bulbous baby belly - softly onto a small slice of bed, and bringing the sheets down again without effecting him. But he always knew when she arrived. And he always performed his matching ritual. "Don't get to close," he'd instruct her as if this was the first time they'd shared a bed. Then, a moment later when he had turned his back to her, taking more than his share of the sheet wrapped around his shoulders, he'd release the words that contained his personal amino acid sulfoxide. "And don't let your stomach touch my back." Those words physically moved through the air, spontaniously rearranging to form a chemical that attacked her eyes and released her tears. Whether she stayed lying on her back or rolled gently to her side determined whether her tears rolled down silently into her ears, or if they would make a small patting sound that only she could hear as they dripped directly onto her pillow.)
Annoyed that poetry arrives when prose was expected.
Annoyed that I have somehow added a shaded border to the right side of each page in the document.
Annoyed that this whole process much more isolating and longer than anticipated.
Annoyed that scenarios I see in my mind need so many words to convey them to the pages in the book. (She wept when he turned away from her. vs. The rhythm of his rejection and her tears seemed connected by a biological process. Each night she tried to climb into their bed as gently as she could, picking up the sheets as if they were made of tissue. She'd hold her breath as she executed the single motion of lifting the sheets, sliding her body - with bulbous baby belly - softly onto a small slice of bed, and bringing the sheets down again without effecting him. But he always knew when she arrived. And he always performed his matching ritual. "Don't get to close," he'd instruct her as if this was the first time they'd shared a bed. Then, a moment later when he had turned his back to her, taking more than his share of the sheet wrapped around his shoulders, he'd release the words that contained his personal amino acid sulfoxide. "And don't let your stomach touch my back." Those words physically moved through the air, spontaniously rearranging to form a chemical that attacked her eyes and released her tears. Whether she stayed lying on her back or rolled gently to her side determined whether her tears rolled down silently into her ears, or if they would make a small patting sound that only she could hear as they dripped directly onto her pillow.)
Annoyed that poetry arrives when prose was expected.
 |
| Photo by Brenda Brock, NWS, Des Mones, IA |
Enmity
Minus five degrees,
at five-thirty PM.
This kind of weather
thaws the souls of
people I've lived with.
Some of those people
. . . . were me.
No comments:
Post a Comment