Slow Dancing in Our Living Room

 

I. 

This week I've had an unhealthy relationship with the Pomodoro Technique. Yes, I have been wildly productive. However, something has shifted where I feel like my life is existing in 15 minute intervals*. It reminds me of when I was a child and some adult would have an old-school slide projector and would be showing images of photos they had taken, or perhaps works of art. There would be a heavy clunk-shift sound, then an image projected onto a screen. Just ask you started to lose yourself in the image: Another clunk-shift. A new image, pulling you out of the world you had just started to immerse yourself in. 

II.

I never really understood souvenirs until I experienced them through you. You told me that you liked to get things to commemorate particular experiences. Capturing a memory before it became a memory. Slowly, you started getting me little (as in tiny, my favorite) mugs here and there on our adventures. 

Over the years, it continues. I love it. 

My favorite so far is what may be the softest shirt I've ever had on my body that you picked up from a Midwest doughnut shop. You took me there to show me why they may be the best donuts around in that sun-faded, somehow familiar hometown. 

 

be well; be loved,

k. 

 

 

*= (I have been doing 15 minute increments, not the traditional 25). 

 

[image from Ifoundshelterhere tumblr] 

Pouring Water Upon Ice Cubes: The Elegence of Being

I am currently willingly stuck in the crevice between the wall and the mattress of my bed. My shirt has lifted up just a bit to expose my lower back, and I am enjoying the feeling of the wall's coolness against my skin.

The window in my bedroom is open about a foot, and the birds that tend to perform high wire feats upon the telephone and electrical lines outside of my window are busy chatting and investing their songs and chirps into the local dialog. The sun is out but hidden by some clouds at the moment. The air feels crisp and pepperminty on my feet, that are also sticking out from the crevice between the wall and the mattress of my bed, and that are closest to the window.

Things feel so good and right at present. Nourishment in the form of good food, good company, good conversation, good books, good films, good ideas, ...dare I say good news? Good news.

I've been having the time I need to be able to write. It's important to me. This writing that I'm working on. There's so much more of a process before one gets to writing or typing, as the case may be. I think only writers understand that.  I'm thinking back to when Alison Bechdel was here months ago, and now thinking of words that Jacqueline Woodson echoed when she was here, recently:  That writers are lovable maniacs to live with and be around.  That they need copious amounts of alone time. That one moment they will be out and about and cheering and chatting, and the next minute, they will have disappeared into the closest shadow to write something down, or to simply go think.

The balance of these things has been sorted out for now. Social with solitary. Wandering with directed. Uncertainty mixed with confidence.

For now, I'll just continue drinking down the last bit of this coffee from within the crevice of this bed and think about what's to come.

Then, as most writers must, I'll jimmy myself out of this crevice to run a brush through my hair and get myself to work on time.


Be well; be loved,


k.
(image via chromatic-porn Tumblr)