Three o’clock on a hot Wednesday afternoon, listening to classic Bob Dylan singing Absolutely Sweet Marie and a grand old gospel song sung by the late great Johnny Cash.
It’s nice and cool here in the cloud, the boudoir, with Buck by my side. I mowed the yard this morning. Man, it was hot. Now “Ace Up Your Pretty Sleeve” is playing, with Vince Gill’s sweet tenor country crooning.
For a couple years there, I thought I might have a real shot at a writing life. Now, these are nearly the first free-write words I’ve written in months. I don’t know where it went, exactly, but it sure as hell evaporated.
And now that our health crisis has knocked us upside the head, I seem to be able to think only in clichés.
For the first time in memory, I’m listening to an i-Tunes shuffle. It may after all be a way back to daily writing. I’m not so indispensable that I can’t get lost for a short while in music and writing.
A quick refresher with Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones” always helps.
Late afternoon thunder rumbles outside. Music in my ears now is Vamos a Bailar from the fabulous Gypsy Kings. My mind flies all around like dandelion seeds in a high wind.
Dinner thoughts intrude: whole wheat pasta with mushrooms, garlic, parsley and olive oil, with wok cooked yellow squash or zucchini, cucumbers.
Old Lyle Lovett’s scratchy voice singing “South Texas Girl” soothes my feathers.
Corpus Christi means body of Jesus.
Other option for supper is wok-cooked Italian-seasoned chicken thighs, onion and squash and mushrooms and brown rice.
Even now, in this storm, I feel like anything I would write would be a trite, shadow rendition of the sharp, rough reality.
I want to find a way back to my creative center — can’t see any other way to stay centered and strong.
Emmy Lou Harris sings “All That You Have Is Your Soul.”