Poetry of Living

Remember scratch n sniff stickers? This is listen n read blogging.

Play this:



To read this:

Sometimes you drive around doing errands, buying office tools, buttoning up against the rain and eating a fast lunch so you can get back to work.

And then you get home and dive in. To the work. Organizing paragraphs and making up story lines. You're listening to George Winston because you remembered that pretty sound recently, when it was way past midnight, and you were suffocating in wordsand--a letter-y kind of quicksand that writers fall into, especially after midnight. It can show up right there in the middle of their apartments, one step backward and s-s-s-squish, there they go, if they are not careful, and they are barely surviving a Code Bleak, wordsand kind of night. If you still have a hand sticking out, though, you can open iTunes and see what can save you. For me, three nights ago, it was the memory of the sound of George Winston's piano. The sound of it bounced inside my skull. Such non sequitur memories get squeezed out of the desire to survive.

Then day returns. Lunch is finished. You've turned on George's DECEMBER. And you're working, and you look up, out your window at the bridge. And over the rooftops, it has begun to snow. It's snowing. And you're writing, in the middle of the day. And you're listening to DECEMBER and you remember, of a sudden but softly as snow falling, you've dreamt this again and again your whole life through. To be a writer. By day. With a window. And quiet. And snow.