Chill
The chill mix shuffles quietly. For The Birds. Hahn Songs. Nick. He shifts in his seat and counts the cursor blinks. Defy the blank screen.
When nothing develops, he looks out the window and loves the evening sky. After a while, he reads through some old posts and is surprised. He doesn’t always understand himself. He wonders if others understand themselves.
The music plays and it’s good music. A perfect moment, except for the lack of tea – and words. It’s impossible to write when life is good.
He lets his mind fly out the window to Portland, New York, and to wherever the note taker takes herself. To others who struggle before the electric emptiness and who, more regularly than he, overcome it.
July 11, 2009 at 01:28 p
There is so much truth to that, my friend. On the days that went well, when I am not conflicted, it is difficult to write. I sit and watch the cursor blink as itunes dj picks the music. And it’s all my favorite music because, well, it’s mine. I can’t even write about a song I don’t know or a memory stirred up because I’ve heard it all before.
It is doubtful that there is any among us who understand ourselves. Not the writers, the runners, the fishermen, the hikers, the artists, the farmers. That is why we do what we do. We do it to be able to look into ourselves. We do it to understand. But the looking? I think it causes us to know less.
July 21, 2009 at 12:13 p
That blank screen and the blinking cursor haunts me more often than you would believe. But you have pegged the necessity for music and tea. Although writing is sometimes a struggle, understanding myself is sometimes even more so. And that’s when it’s the most difficult to write. When I sit down and try to write as the person I thought I was yesterday and find that person has disappeared for a bit.