Thursday, December 1, 2011


Consciousness stripped of ornaments. In the shower a naked conscience. Wish the laptop could materialize in the steam because ideas fall faster than liquid heat. I catch them before they fuse with the precipitation on the bathtub floor. Ocean floor. Studio taught me the more information you put down, the more the drawing grows and develops. Because all art is merely a medium for thought, making ideas interchangeable across disciplines, of course this applies to writing. And looking at a quote and a collection would make the pen fly if computers had not subverted my cursive hand, but keys are deliberate and melodic so no romance is lost on me.

Resisting the temptation to fall into the indentation in the comforter dragged across my bed, sense of urgency defying the urge to slip into old comfort under the sheets, I carry my black box with electric fingertips smoothed by the weight of inspiration. I set it down in the mosaic of wood finishes and dub it a centerpiece to my table of treasures. The shift of atmosphere, the resistance of the chestnut under me will make this time different.

Meanwhile satin sheets and a tapestry rug slip into my wishlist.

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