it is may.
803 posts on the crumbs, including this one.
maybe i'll hang it up when it gets to an even 1000.
this is many years, on here!
as i drew back the curtain in the bathroom this evening, i saw the tree in the backyard and noticed the broadness of the leaves and thought of how many times, how many spring and summer days in new jersey, i have meant to sit and write this thing brewing in my head about those same broadening leaves (not those same, but the same), those humid breaths of jersey spring and summer evenings, the hum of blood and mosquitoes, etc.
and of course it still has yet to quit brewing and actually pour.
this whole thing, these crumbs, they were intended to be something of a navigational device, something to get the juices going before leading me to things to write. jonathan's dynamic stretching, but in words. sometimes things fruited (not here. on paper. there is one bound book.), but most often... not. most often, the crumbs have amounted to small talk or whining, and honestly: that is neither interesting nor the point! there was a time, perhaps, when i felt a drive or instinct to broadcast small talk(!) into the internet for people whom i knew only remotely... and i don't know. i won't disown that, but i don't really identify that in myself anymore, either. i would say, "oh, only a few people read this thing, and it's easier to say it here and have them pick it up at their leisure" -- which is true, but... these friends who have read and read since 2001, i generally talk to them elsewhere anyway.
this is not a conversation so much anymore, and it's not really a writing prompt for myself anymore. so what is it besides a procrastinatory tool that never really bears useful fruit? ...quinces. oh, quinces. someone could do great things with it all, but i am doubting myself as fit.
so. we'll see if the next 200 posts of mine are laundry lists or actual conversation-seeds. if they are laundry lists, i will hang it up to finally dry out and you can catch me on the email or phone (yes, i've gotten over the phone hump. you'll probably have to call me, but i may actually pick up, these days).
ps this has nothing to do with the conversation about "bad art" from last night, slightly more to do with the conversation from the weekend, but mostly to do with the fact that i haven't been writing for real and would like to. it's simply time to switch up the strategies.
ps sidenote for future reference (i swear: only b/c i don't have a pen handy!) (what kind of writer...) (!) so you remember, michele, that piece you read about squiggling the toes in bed? that thing about how the first kinds of impressions you make of your day fairly make your day? and if you tend to make sound impressions on most days, or smell impressions on most days, well, that tells you something about the kind of person you are and the kind of life you live or are meant to live? who wrote that, do you remember? it didn't ring a bell at the time, and that is a shame (what kind of reader...).
maybe i'll hang it up when it gets to an even 1000.
this is many years, on here!
as i drew back the curtain in the bathroom this evening, i saw the tree in the backyard and noticed the broadness of the leaves and thought of how many times, how many spring and summer days in new jersey, i have meant to sit and write this thing brewing in my head about those same broadening leaves (not those same, but the same), those humid breaths of jersey spring and summer evenings, the hum of blood and mosquitoes, etc.
and of course it still has yet to quit brewing and actually pour.
this whole thing, these crumbs, they were intended to be something of a navigational device, something to get the juices going before leading me to things to write. jonathan's dynamic stretching, but in words. sometimes things fruited (not here. on paper. there is one bound book.), but most often... not. most often, the crumbs have amounted to small talk or whining, and honestly: that is neither interesting nor the point! there was a time, perhaps, when i felt a drive or instinct to broadcast small talk(!) into the internet for people whom i knew only remotely... and i don't know. i won't disown that, but i don't really identify that in myself anymore, either. i would say, "oh, only a few people read this thing, and it's easier to say it here and have them pick it up at their leisure" -- which is true, but... these friends who have read and read since 2001, i generally talk to them elsewhere anyway.
this is not a conversation so much anymore, and it's not really a writing prompt for myself anymore. so what is it besides a procrastinatory tool that never really bears useful fruit? ...quinces. oh, quinces. someone could do great things with it all, but i am doubting myself as fit.
so. we'll see if the next 200 posts of mine are laundry lists or actual conversation-seeds. if they are laundry lists, i will hang it up to finally dry out and you can catch me on the email or phone (yes, i've gotten over the phone hump. you'll probably have to call me, but i may actually pick up, these days).
ps this has nothing to do with the conversation about "bad art" from last night, slightly more to do with the conversation from the weekend, but mostly to do with the fact that i haven't been writing for real and would like to. it's simply time to switch up the strategies.
ps sidenote for future reference (i swear: only b/c i don't have a pen handy!) (what kind of writer...) (!) so you remember, michele, that piece you read about squiggling the toes in bed? that thing about how the first kinds of impressions you make of your day fairly make your day? and if you tend to make sound impressions on most days, or smell impressions on most days, well, that tells you something about the kind of person you are and the kind of life you live or are meant to live? who wrote that, do you remember? it didn't ring a bell at the time, and that is a shame (what kind of reader...).
posted by raritan at 8:33 PM
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