None of the words in my head tonight are words I should write. They’re words I’d delete in the morning. A glass of wine, and they’re the best words I have for the night. My best unspoken words.
[Okay…last night it wasn’t unspoken.]
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On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories. Credit: The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.
The words we write are part of who we are. That was my motivation, I think.
I decided early this year to work on collecting my bits of writing in some sort of permanent way. Not to publish it, but to have it for myself. Also to have it for those in my life who might care to read it, and maybe keep it.
My goal was to assemble it all in a way that would make turning pages a pleasure. Something with sturdy covers, good quality paper, etc. Nice enough to wrap in tissue paper and hand to someone as a gift.
It started old school with printing copies and storing my work in a three-ring binder. Functional, but certainly not gift worthy.
Eventually, I decided to use the formatting from one of those companies that produces photo calendars, photo cards, and photo books. And chose their simplest style 8 inch by 10 inch photo book product, which includes stretchable text boxes.
I selected about 25 of my written pieces and some of my photos, and set to work. It was tedious. There was no ‘cut and paste’, so it took a lot of ‘delete and re-type’. Start overs, and of course, proofing. It was a project to make everything fit and have a sequencing and flow that made sense and looked good. I enjoy that sort of work, but it’s not something you can throw together in a couple of days.
Ta da … I completed one collection in the spring, and I just finished another for the winter. This isn’t an ad for photo companies, but their production and the paper products they use were more than I hoped for. Coffee table book quality materials, glossy pages, attractive covers, and nice binding. It optimized what I had to offer.
The costs were reasonable, and I’m happy to have a personalized keepsake to gift this Christmas.
For me, for myself, I get to leaf through the pages and feel like the words I write matter. And see that they have a little bit of permanence.
I don’t write everyday, just when I have something to say. Maybe that’s not best, but it’s me. For a while now, a week, maybe two, since all the virus quarantine social distancing non-stop 24/7, I didn’t want to write. I get like that when life’s too much. I feel a little shaky, my stomach jittery, my brain lazy. Maybe I should fight the malaise and the brain freeze, but I almost never ever do.
Eventually and inevitably, it happens. In a snap. In the time it takes for the brain to wake up. The writing bug kicks in, and I know I have to write.
For me it usually happens with a song, a great song, great words, one of the great song writers. And I always, always, think the same thing — I wish I could write one great song. Well, I can tell you that will never ever happen. The next thought is pretty much always the same — I need to write. Just like that. Not I want to write. I need to write.
I lifted my eyes toward the treetops, and took in the jagged black and white underwings of a large bird. It flew below the canopy, but high among the branches, then landed halfway up a tree trunk and started drumming. It was about 50 feet from me, and I was happy to stand there for awhile to admire. Look up, listen, watch, marvel. Pileated woodpeckers are so impressive.
The sound of the woods isalways wonderful. Quiet and still and noisy at the same time. There are crows cawing, some little bird sounds…the tweets and the chee-eeps. And often woodpecker sounds. The familiar drumming gives your eyes a direction to search, but the pileated woodpecker is still hard to spot. Some say it’s shy. This time, though, I could see it. I could watch that incredible crested head nodding to pick at the bark.
After a minute or so, the surrounding noise of the woods tugged my attention, and I recognized there was a second woodpecker. Louder, closer, somewhere behind me. I wondered, almost subconsciously, if the two were communicating with each other. My curiosity got the best of me, and I turned.
Ah-hah!
Another one. It was standing upright as woodpeckers do, easily balanced on the side of a tree, not far at all from me. [the one in the photo]
vidal sassoon bob cuts mods and rockers goldie and twiggy mary quant mary janes models in neon colors and ditsy prints eye liner and pale lips grannies and minis
February makes me want to sleep. Pull the covers over my head and sleep. I’m pretty sure I’m not depressed, I don’t feel depressed. I just feel like I want to take a break. Tune out for awhile.
the nature of january is cold, raw, it’s bottoming out, the point of nothingness, dare we say hopeless, when there’s nothing left to hold onto but the skeletal remains of what’s eating away at us.
For the parts of us that want to sleep. Sleep deep, and out from the grab of reality. Sleep as long as it takes for acceptance to numb perceptions.
I guess the silent hibernation of a hard cold winter will be here soon enough, but there is a glimpse, a blink, a desperate longing, for something quiet to hold onto.
“and the moon rose over an open field” – Simon and Garfunkel –
sometimes the line of a song plays over and over for years and years inside your head maybe ’cause it paints a picture for you inside your head sometimes the best pictures you have in life are the ones that you see inside your head
Rain is pouring outside the car. The repellent in my raincoat did all it could, but I’m damp and cold, my shoes are soaked through, and my hair hopeless. Water’s streaming down the windshield, and beyond that, outside….
“and the moon rose over an open field”
etikser 