Swells Intimidating

I was pretty good about writing every day.  And it has become harder.  I am still committed to publishing about every day.  But what ends up happening is I take notes on one day or another, I capture an image or a segue in notes about that Thursday, that Saturday.  And then on a day like today, Sunday generally, I attend to writing them all out.  And, as with most things we leave till later, the time needed to catch up swells intimidating. 

How does the writing change when you write for hours and hours as opposed to banging something out in shorter blocks, once a day?  Certainly after a while, you migrate from thinking about writing to writing.  You’re having a conversation with yourself.  After a time, you’ve reminded yourself that you're a reasonable conversationalist and any topic you might introduce at an evening’s gathering you could just as easily pursue da sé.

Everyone is out.  Or did I drive them away?  The older one said she was going to go out for a bike ride.  “Hey, shall we go together, and I can fill up the air on your sister’s leaky tire bike, we can ride up to where the old gnarled guy patches tires and then we could do a ride together?”  I can tell before I finish that this is a nonstarter.   “I think I’d rather just go around a bit by myself.” “No.  Sure.  I get it.”

She came back after her ride and I paused.  We read some ‘War and Peace’ together, the letters exchanged between Princess Marya and her dear friend Julie: 

“What a terrible and awful thing absence is!  I tell myself that half of my existence and happiness is in you that for all the distance that divides us, our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, yet my own rebels against destiny . . . “  

You know, like We Chat.   

The younger one is home.  Her hair has molted metallic and, if you look closely it appears somewhat blue.  She is somewhat blue, because the hair is not sufficiently blue.  I am doing all I can to say that the $80+ experiment won’t be repeated until next year’s birthday.  I don’t.  I just keep saying it looks “subtle.”  Donald Byrd led me to the work of David T. Walker, the guitarist who has an oeuvre, which I’m now discovering.  I like his bends.  And I’m caught up for the week, as I’d set out to do today.