A writer, a strange animal. Most animals eat their prey, from skin to very bone and marrow. Enjoying the hunt and the kill. A writer though, does not enjoy the hunt, the scheming and plotting. They toil and pull hairs. They flagellate themselves in ritual, counting the days and hours; the sun up and sundown. Every glass needed to be rinsed out— only to add its same volume. Every butt and soldier lie wasted just missing its mark of the tray. They do their mental exercise, stretch out their arms above their heads to bring an offering to the gods. They look through their book of notes and curse the placement of adjective and conjunction. Damn you… your good. A writer is a writer.
A writer is someone who conjures up words and syllables, rhymes and reason. Whose potion stirs up the dreamer in us all. All who adds tissue and setting, color and flavor, accent and motion to every detail that wanders on page per page. A writer is not that paper mite that hides when we close the book—- not to be noticed except for that tattoo of brown or that distinct sulphur smell we react to. A writer is the one whose cantation evoke the dreams we are all made of, out of us and into imagination. Its like that second brownie we take with milk. We enjoy it, we think of it— no longer lingering on our taste bud. But its there when we think of the moment. We readers, dreamers— who can recite a passage— like a cantation—- we want to see that magician’s smoke arise. Magical. Mystical— the writer. We go back to it, like a second date, we take our chances— because sometimes that second time around— is not… that.. Sometimes, we just roll that book around in our hands. Don’t disappoint me. Yet, a writer… when he has put the words just right, that second, third time around becomes more magical. We only wish. No let me read it a second time… with a glass of wine. No. On a porch with my dog. No… with the patter of rain against the window. It just has to be right, wait, let me try after a warm bath. That moment. Every book should come with a curtain. A drum roll.
Today I am chasing, running, drinking, coordinating, wanting, feeling, reading.
My guide had an interview. Some intensely Berkeley-sounding interview...
Feeling steamrolled-over. I am finding more and more that I need time and space to mull things over.
One month ago, seven seasons of Gilmore Girls were made available on Netflix. This morning, I finished season seven.
snow.. rain... stay awhile
I hate being sick because it makes me vulnerable.
Making your own soap.
This morning, friends and strangers got together for a Secret Breakfast Club. We sat in the garden at the Edible Schoolyard started by Alice Waters in Berkeley.