on silence, she thought.
where does it come from?
why is there the need to not say anything, to keep to oneself – turned in.
i do not know.
scrolling back through the archives, february, december, september, october. so many thoughts written down in the heat of their fire and now they seem dead, stone cold, set in place. no, why be so dramatic. cut back on the drama, the voice of my writing teacher echoes in my head, despite what the poets told you not everything needs to be burning. sometimes we exist at lukewarm, held in place, by the ordinary-ness of reality.
i am coming back to that.
but i am also coming back to myself.
what does it mean, to come back to yourself?
for me it feels like starting over, a white crisp page. about to set down ink on a page still vibrating with possibilities. for me it feels like returning home, recognizing the person in the mirror-image after months of avoiding her gaze. for me its like cinnamon sprinkled over coffee – you forget how good it tastes before you try it again.
and on trying again –
we arrive here.
after months of silence, retracing, re-discovery.
today i wrote the last word of my first novel.
without dramatizing, it felt like rasping my name in stone. like tip-toping the boundary of transience and permanence, an uneven weight in my hands.
i have been writing a lot recently, starting a lot and finishing less.
it feels good to be creative again. to be a little bit reckless and naive and hopeful that it will all end up somewhere, like all the rolls of film lying undeveloped on my bedside table. someday ill gather the motivation to go to have them developed, hold them glossy and still a little bit warm in my hands.
silence, returning, trying, iconography
if there is a theme for spring it has to be this.
the effort of making something from the long cold new-year months before the warmth of summer blows through and you’re ready to hold it up, finished in your hands, to the sun.
thats where im at.
where are you?