This is one of those mornings where I keep looking up into the air, into that middle distance, into what I think of as ether.
I want to pull the words out from behind this scrim of life. In fact, I want to slit open that scrim and step behind it, sewing the opening shut behind me with the looping thread of a slip stitch.
Today is one of those days when what seems most real is what I can’t see, what doesn’t even exist yet, what I have yet to carve out of ink on the page.
A breeze is blowing strong outside my office door right now. The trees, finally fully leaved, are dancing to music I cannot see, the undersides of their green fingers brushing sound from sky.
Perhaps this is why wind and breath are so much how I think of writing. Unseen becomes seen. What is beyond perception (except when it is absent) becomes real, visual, audible, tangible. . . a whisper on the skin.
Today, writing is golden dancers of light that show themselves like sunspots . . . visible when I close my eyes.
And the only way I can reach them is to get up and dance, eyes closed, fingers brushing the sky.