Archive | Snapshot
It never ceases to amuse me that permakitten Grace adores having the rug being pulled out from under her. Literally. Once a morning, she rumples my throw rug and then sprawls upon it, belly up, eyes slitted. When I slooowwwly slide her off to straighten the rug out, she purrs with the greatest satisfaction. Sometimes she even lets me drag her around on it first, as if she were lying upon a sled. Or a throne, come to think of it. Whatever her intent, this action impresses me. Living metaphors always do.Write Here Now
Historically I’ve considered writing necessary but very stressful–an albatross that I could not escape but never quite embrace. But more and more I’ve felt not so much an elation as a contentment when I’m working. Today it’s lightly raining outside, I’m armed with a very large americano, an Italian sandwich, and headphones playing “Money Jungle,” and I’m set up at the corner table at the corner cafe on my block watching my neighbors race to work. At other tables kids are playing with legos (I live opposite a school) and here I sit, playing with words. I have many worries–who does not?–but I no longer question my choice of profession. It is the biggest of reliefs.
Sustainable Fire, Early Prose
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Blonde