April 18th, 2008
Got fingers busy with the pen this morning. Very important to remain connected to those roots. Handwrite letters. Put them together. So that they make words. Doing it like that—the old fashioned way—gives the brain more time to process thought. Makes it more likely that I’ll put down the good stuff when I start with the pen. It can’t hurt anyway. And I’ve always believed it increases the chances of getting it right.
Whatever it is.
This sunny warm day. With its southwesterly breeze. Blue skies, transparent clouds, passenger planes silver and bright. The big, high-speed chariots that keep us in our state of perpetual motion.
I like it when they look so small and slow-moving against the wide-open canvas. Keeps me on track. Makes me believe that I’m thinking the right things. That sometimes it’s best to stop. Sit in a chair and relax. So the mind and body get in synch. And we are aware of how significant we are in this—the intimate smallness we share.
Like last night.
Me and S.B. in chairs. Side-by-side. In the back yard. Wrapping up our day with conversation, moonlight, the city settling down. Dogs barking in the distance. Traffic thinning. Bats nabbing bugs. The flashing strobes of chariots in the sky. A glass of merlot. A bottle of Coruna. Deep breaths. Sighs. The brilliant stars so sharp in the dark. And every problem, worry, regret, and fear eased away by the sweetness of night on skin. So that finally, when it was time to go inside and put our tired bodies to bed, I could sleep soundly knowing that I was getting close to being the man I’d always wanted to be. That this day-by-day existence of working hard and smart and truly was increasing my chances of getting it right.
Whatever it is.
These fingers to the pen. Or to the keys. Always, putting the pieces together. Making words that breathe and rain and warm and sing. So that all of us can find our moment. Hold tight. And believe.
(copyright © 2008 by k.j. stevens)