master of Something

Summer, 1959. Photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt for Life magazine.

Domain. These are my walls, graciously standing. What we say here, goes. What we say goes from here, does. The battles I fight are to keep this roof intact. No one gets permission to burn my house down. Rah-rah-rah. Swords and shields. Teeth, grit, Warrior. Peacemaker trials and hope, hope, hope.

Household. If Domain is all spirit, Household is all practicality. This one's made of Attempting: cookery, bakery, cleanery, organizery, slow. Laundry Mountain and The Daily Climb. Paper Valley and The Daily Slog. Bedtimes. Naptime needs & misses. Alarm clocks, routine, lunch-made, meal-skip, rush. Hey there cutie, clockwork forage.

Craft. These are my pencil markings, 0's & 1's, eraser marks, blinking cursors. These are my late nights, coffee cups, torn pages, and ideas that suck. Early-morning trials, and breakfasty attempts. Good intentions lined up so far the last one is a pin-dot. Self-depreciation, and yes, I spelled it that way on purpose. Book dreams, book beginnings, book middles, edits, garbage cans, spirit seeking. Cries to the night of the soul. Hope in the morning. Round-we-go. Solid effort. Lazy meanderings. Terrible sentences. Solace in the misery of others. Stealing like an Artist, because Austin said so. Desperate attempts to avoid writing for fear of what'll come out. I should name this "Mastering the Art of Avoiding Myself." I've made a craft of forgetting and letting go. Writing anyway, not because I have to, but because I need to, because it's what I know. I'm addicted to the sound of clicking keys. I have ink running into my blood on a permanent IV drip. I'm the only one I make sense to.

If I could, I would put my head on the page at night,
let my imagination write while I'm sleeping.




#500wordsthisisnot