December 10, 2014 § Leave a comment
Listening to the rain, Clara brushed the day’s work from her hair. She
surveyed the house again, looking for anything left undone. Baxter,
the old spaniel trailed her, restive.
Dressed with measure.
Heated a brandy.
“Time to go now,” she said, turning off lights.
By midnight the river was in the parlor.
November 8, 2012 § 5 Comments
Done but not finished, but justthesame booted out, or the cocoon the chrysalis of my centaur castle now that the story is formed, and printed, gave way. There’s that thing about typesetting, the time, the one letter at a time thing that captures you; keeps you, in the best keeping sense. A tactile, kinesthetic, sensual embrace, transporting you, holding you in the scene. In the story. In the telling. Certainly as long as the writing did. At least as long as the reading will.
A warp, a rift, a metamorphosis and now I’m done but not finished.
And glad as I was, as I am, to be unlashed, cut loose to play at other things and romp if I choose, I’m already mourning the loss. Of course there still remains the final denouement, the final distribution of the centaur cast of letters to their rightful places in the case to be ready for the next assignment.
Not to mention the finishing.
titles title pages colophons to finalize and print
books to fashion, assemble, sew
covers and endpapers and thread to gather
a deadline of sorts (open house Dec. 2) to meet
The said&done point is: it’s not quite done. And justas at the beginning, afraid to start, now, equally afraid to finish, I loiter, I dawdle and ruminate (to mix a metaphor). And godknows colophons and title pages take as much ruminating as the rest of the project in its entirety, I equivocate. I bore myself with the niggling.
The but, and ha! thing is, ending a project, completing it, is no less awe inspiring, andso frightening, as beginning it; a different commitment, a different risk, a different position. A different perspective. And so I’m standing again, in that spot, where one has to make take the leap, of faith, but even more so, of self.
May 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
logs and histories are intended as much as possible to be factual, and I suppose a calendar which functions as a daily diary, journals suppose license to editorialize, and imagine, and to lapse into fiction, and stories are just that–stories, and poems of course, are poetry
what’s ‘true’ are the feelings for the most part that elicit, that provoke that compel one–me–to write, and though all writing starts with &/or incorporates factual tidbits, it is simply grist, and I’ve come to find out as much as folk hate being grist for the page, worse is being the only who’s not, and as my friend Bill said a long time ago, all writers are robbers, ergo: there’s no ally ally in free
so, is it true? of course, and of course not…what the reader must decide is if it’s true enough, and: NONE OF IT IS ABOUT ANYONE YOU KNOW, UNLESS YOU KNOW ME, CAUSE, IT’S ALL ABOUT ME, THESE ARE MY STORIES.
May 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
wrote it a thousand years ago, it’s been on my mind, well telling the stories, each of us our own, has been on my mind, and the why we do, or don’t and the who or what we are protecting or saving…my mother always said there never really is ‘the right time’ and more&more I understand what she meant…anyway it’s dawning on me there’s no ally ally in free, paths cross we meet people we never expected to again, and fact is they already know the story, don’t they…
The New Blue Truck
He came down to show them his new truck. His brand new metallic blue pickup truck. Of course in manner of toast they went for a right now ride into the night. Drinking lots of cold beer and being very careful not to spill any on his new blue Naugahyde seats.
All in their spots. She was flanked on either side.