Just now, when I sat down to write to you, my hands instantly began typing the the the the the the the . . . a long strip of nothing, yet visually tactile, yet pleasingly patterned, yet urgent. Sometimes the act of writing becomes a stutter: symbols themselves flitting into amoebic motion, a kind of vibration, words without meaning, only the surface glittering. Sometimes, at least for me. I don't think I've every talked about this with anyone--about the way in which the physical presence of letters and words can take charge. I suppose it's related to synesthesia and other physical experiences with symbol and image.
In any case, writing about it has broken the urgency, which is interesting.
It's nearly 6 a.m., but still a thick darkness seals the windows. Lamps burn, furnace mutters. The day resists dawning, and the little house is an eggshell, a milkweed pod, tautly solid, frail as sleep.
Today, what shall I do today? Laundry and dishes; get onto my mat, meet a friend for a walk. I'll do some editing, I'll make pie crust . . . Make strides, take steps, move forward, inch ahead . . .
In the distance a siren wails. Night clings to the windows, but blood and breath insist, they demand. It is their job: "Eyes, blink. Thoughts, wander."
Look at all I have written, when I thought I could write nothing.
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