Returning to writing.

I’ve flirted with photography. Carried a camera like a baby, attentive and delicate – do you see that hawk, look at that building, click, click, click. But it never advanced beyond infancy. The resulting photographs with no nuance, capturing none of the life and vivacity of my eye.

Returning to writing.

I pulled out half-dry oil pastels from decades ago. I make broad strokes of every shade of blue and purple. I tried to recreate the lines by the eyes of my favorite poet. In green and yellow and umber I tried to create the rusted railroad tracks in the woods behind my childhood home. The page was a smear and my fingers were coated in failed attempts.

Returning to writing.

I stream TV. All the TV: recommended shows, independent comedies, stand-up. I fill my hours with nonsense and story because I am just done with it all. I can’t watch a single moment without being fully aware of the creative acts that birthed even the most mundane show. I consume subpar art and feel mine rotting in my gut.

Returning to writing with a 60 cent 80 count 7.5 X 10.5 wide-ruled page notebook. I doodle with sharpies on the cover. Flowers, gallows, failed attempts at Celtic knots and like a resurrecting spirit the memory rises. A tiny manilla desk in class under the drone of a teacher and the images of someday, when I have graduated, when I am sitting in a dark wood desk in my house filling my time with my own stories in my own words. It has been thirty years and I have had this big fat desk, cluttered with kitsch and a dog eared thesaurus, for a decade. Suddenly I drop the sharpie for my pen and turn to the blank lined pages, suddenly as exotic and open as the first trip to Mars, suddenly I want to bleed ink.

I made it.

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