When I write, I write from prompts, the ones organically generated around me, from nature, usually from my own photographic capture. But what if I started only with the classic white space? A screen, a cursor – better yet, lined paper – better yet, the heavier plummet of fingers upon a typewriter… Yes, I do remember…
When I write, I begin without an ending, never know the next letter even; it’s always a surprise, an adventure I am but the vehicle for, at the will of my muse. And so it goes with this warm-up practice getting back into the habit of creating the dance in the absence of the music. The sound and lyrics within need but the expression mechanism; there is never a pause in my mind, there will never be a time in which my fingers do not itch for the dance with or without the prompt, with or without a reader. I am a writer. And not by chance.
Except this exercise was supposed to be non-poetry. I’ll start again but an essayist, I may simply no longer be. I long for it, but wrong it seems to try to suppress this sing-song in me that happens whenever my spirit brushes up against these keys, and my wings remember the feel of the breeze, and my heart remembers what it is to be free.
It was a dark and rainy early Saturday morning that I felt the rejuvenating movement of air fan the cinders of my soul on the side of the fire neglected for only a short while, yet the glow that yearns the most to be fed seems overly sensitive to the cold.
My muses knew and rose to perform the effortless, second-nature ritual as the hiss of the coffee pot like water drops tempered all other sides of the fire, and Poetry puffed up its orange-and-gray-feathered embers as twelve days of life-buyness’s still air gave way to weekend’s rising wind igniting creative passion’s desires.
Finally again: a moment in time to exhale that pent-up lyrical sigh.