11 weeks into the semester, and I am starting to feel the way rivulets of thought follow the same paths across my mind, effluvial, tangential, but towards the same place. Grooves forming. Patterns
The culmination of bigger projects are looming on the calendar now; dates circled, deadlines in red, and for all the art and code and philosophy and discussions about emergence, I miss writing.
Writing like this: words collected and stashed like a grubby handful of chocolates; words that tell you how the mountains were gleaming white and pink with snow and setting sun; words that capture the birds on the wires that my eye notices now always, tracing the contours of poles and lines that frame nearly every view.
Words that gather like snow clouds on the horizon; words that hold the dry air and the crackle of yellow-brown leaves; words that gut the feeling of quiver and heart flutter when two police cars pass me, lights flashing, sirens blaring, as I pull to the curb, hesitate, then go again. Words that do this: magic, poem, prose, wonder.
I’m doing this program, this time, these commitments because of writing. Because of the way I need it, like breathing. Because I am an artist first, always, and now, and have finally found the courage to claim this title for myself. And because when I graduate I’ll have three precious letters to attach to my name and the opportunity to open doors to new jobs that support and sustain me creatively and financially. But right this very second I crave what words can do for the single frail fluttering leaf, rust colored against the blue that is my heart tonight; in flight before a certain settling.
And so even though I’m a day late, I’m showing up for NaBloPoMo. Whatever I have, that’s what I’m giving. Messy fragmented words. Whatever I’ve got.
Will you come along? Your comments make me happy every single time.