I often question turning “what is” into words. Bang my head against it. Annoyed at turning away to turn within. I know however, that’s the nature of my writing, inspired more by the east than the west. It’s love that makes me do it. Record what is. But still. It’s the turning away that bothers me I suppose. Walk. Then write. If I could do that I might be happier. Instead I write and write and write. At the moment, I’m sitting at my desk. Low morning sun over my right shoulder making it difficult to see the computer screen. Crisp yellow light and sharp, defined shadows. I’m eating a bowl of porridge with blueberries and maple syrup. I think. I keep picking the bowl up and putting it down in any case. The bowl is almost empty but I can’t recall eating because I’m writing at the same time.
Reading Charles Wright this morning, I am awed by his use of language. It becomes a natural element. Like wind and water. His words all soul and wisdom, reflect and mingle with the landscape. Poetry as true as any rock, tree or cormorant gliding across the bay’s still surface. I bet he writes when he writes. Walks when he walks. I feel like an absent-minded reporter with one of those cheap little coil bound note pads that fit in the palm of your hand. Scribbling. Pencil breaking. Pen always near empty.
But enough. I’m running late and still have to walk the dog! I wonder how that’s going to go.