I need to be re-inspired. To hear Waylon’s strong voice rumbling up inside of me. Willie’s words to cry for made-up scenes that cover for those uncryable. And Emmy Lou with sweet clarity of pain and purpose that changes straw to golden notes in every verse. Heading to the shop that’s closed this week to give me time to face myself and my abilities. I’ll cut up cardboard into corners, and myself as well. Piles stacked neatly into boxes that are reachable and used up four by four. Or discarded—the waste should be discarded, burned to ashes or put in plastic bags that suffocate.
Outside too. Clean late summer air that threatens to inhibit thought and breath with the rising sun, but offers sounds and smells that cause my mind to fly until it hits late afternoon. A weeding out of summer. A dusting of the rug before the leaves can fall and mess the brain with colored dribs and drabs that move along by breezes once they’ve let go of trees.
And why can’t I?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Because you’re trying too hard.
This probably contradicts what I said in my e-mail to you (but you’re used to my up/down/crabbing sideways style), but it is truly like I am running away from it. Maybe I just need some time to run away, but I’ve forgotten how. Can I come up and stay with you?