July 11 - At least there is flow
Writing is how I metabolize life. Julia Cameron
Good morning here it is I am getting up too late again oh well here it is and the phone is wringing conversation from me and at least the words still flow there is flow, there is flow,
I am in the river, it is surging with bits of litter and weed and mulch, brown and gritty, and warm, too warm. I swim out. The water cools, the flotsam eases, but it is no less opaque. The detritus of nation-building. Along the shore, heaps of empty bottles and cans from beer and snacks lay in abandoned state. It breaks me, this unseeing. Who can disregard the beauty? Almost everyone, it seems.
Yesterday the morning writing and then, a day of distractions and bending the mind to tedious tasks of money and bills and statements, but still phear of fone calls. Today I must make the “scary” calls. Get V to do them, in his mellifluous voice.
“Helloww, is thing the water company? Am I to understand there is a bit of an overdraft here? Well, now, I appreciate this as much as any chap, but…” V pays my bills.
So, a list then? Does it have to be here? This is supposed to be a refuge! The Boat. The Loan. The Apartment. The Stepmother. The Waterline. The temp agency. Kris. The brokerage account. The Job. The business partner. The Brother. Why all this dread!!! Release the dread! Release!! These are the petty details of my life. Get Christine moving again, gaddamit.
Then there are the neglected friends, and the ones who seem to suck too much time out me on the phone.
The city, the train, Katrina, good to reconnect, make appointments for informational interviews, search the web for how to get on Gore’s team. What am I thinking, I haven’t a snowballs chance - too old, too fat... OH get over it! Besides, here he comes, my dark angel, daggers slashing, demons falling away, no more obstacles.
No more obstacles. No more obstacles. No more obstacles. Write for the NSP. Write for the environment. Write to the perpetrators? Consider masking myself as a conservative? A heartlander? My guts roil. Take the drama to the page. Take the vistas to the page. My roiling guts are no accident – detox tea indeed! OK....
Potomac River, evening:
Heat builds, slinks along the river, hugs the surface shimmering , a glittery reflection crisp then wavering in bended air. The murky water carries the heat, too, in its top layer, slithering overtop of the deep cool, insulating, radiating.
The boats skitter and glide. The planes scratch the sky descending. The city belches out its load of trash and silt and sewage, and the river takes it into her mouth, burgeoning with filth, until people turn their back on her, the dirty whore.
This is she who bore you here! In boats and barques you sailed up her with ease, to find this land. You fattened yourself on her slippery fish, sea-scented and luscious. Your eyes caressed her velvety lush thickly furred edges and dreamed of …. Real estate. Logging. It’s great. Let’s transform it.
Her sacred flow, this river, draining valleys afar, still breathes with the tide, though salt is scarce, the sea pushes the river, shoves her higher into the marshes twice each day, a sigh and a release that sends a pulse through he quietest pools.
Did you love the scent of her? Did you quicken with pleasure at her touch? Did she rock you to sleep? Did you ever believe in her love? She who bore you here.
Good morning here it is I am getting up too late again oh well here it is and the phone is wringing conversation from me and at least the words still flow there is flow, there is flow,
I am in the river, it is surging with bits of litter and weed and mulch, brown and gritty, and warm, too warm. I swim out. The water cools, the flotsam eases, but it is no less opaque. The detritus of nation-building. Along the shore, heaps of empty bottles and cans from beer and snacks lay in abandoned state. It breaks me, this unseeing. Who can disregard the beauty? Almost everyone, it seems.
Yesterday the morning writing and then, a day of distractions and bending the mind to tedious tasks of money and bills and statements, but still phear of fone calls. Today I must make the “scary” calls. Get V to do them, in his mellifluous voice.
“Helloww, is thing the water company? Am I to understand there is a bit of an overdraft here? Well, now, I appreciate this as much as any chap, but…” V pays my bills.
So, a list then? Does it have to be here? This is supposed to be a refuge! The Boat. The Loan. The Apartment. The Stepmother. The Waterline. The temp agency. Kris. The brokerage account. The Job. The business partner. The Brother. Why all this dread!!! Release the dread! Release!! These are the petty details of my life. Get Christine moving again, gaddamit.
Then there are the neglected friends, and the ones who seem to suck too much time out me on the phone.
The city, the train, Katrina, good to reconnect, make appointments for informational interviews, search the web for how to get on Gore’s team. What am I thinking, I haven’t a snowballs chance - too old, too fat... OH get over it! Besides, here he comes, my dark angel, daggers slashing, demons falling away, no more obstacles.
No more obstacles. No more obstacles. No more obstacles. Write for the NSP. Write for the environment. Write to the perpetrators? Consider masking myself as a conservative? A heartlander? My guts roil. Take the drama to the page. Take the vistas to the page. My roiling guts are no accident – detox tea indeed! OK....
Potomac River, evening:
Heat builds, slinks along the river, hugs the surface shimmering , a glittery reflection crisp then wavering in bended air. The murky water carries the heat, too, in its top layer, slithering overtop of the deep cool, insulating, radiating.
The boats skitter and glide. The planes scratch the sky descending. The city belches out its load of trash and silt and sewage, and the river takes it into her mouth, burgeoning with filth, until people turn their back on her, the dirty whore.
This is she who bore you here! In boats and barques you sailed up her with ease, to find this land. You fattened yourself on her slippery fish, sea-scented and luscious. Your eyes caressed her velvety lush thickly furred edges and dreamed of …. Real estate. Logging. It’s great. Let’s transform it.
Her sacred flow, this river, draining valleys afar, still breathes with the tide, though salt is scarce, the sea pushes the river, shoves her higher into the marshes twice each day, a sigh and a release that sends a pulse through he quietest pools.
Did you love the scent of her? Did you quicken with pleasure at her touch? Did she rock you to sleep? Did you ever believe in her love? She who bore you here.
posted by Ven at 4:56 PM
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