Saturday, January 6, 2018
Writing, It's Personal . . .
I have pushed the clutter of nagging thoughts, the to-do list, the temptation to read up on our latest cultural dysfunction, and have made myself a safe haven.
I'm at my desk, with music playing softly, fresh cup of hot coffee warming my hands, as it is very cold here and daylight hasn't begun to fill the sky. I think, Now what is it that I want to say? What can I set loose onto this page that waits like the landscape of white. Some days, I feel like I live on the moon. The wind has been blowing for three days now--whispers of snow slipping off the high drifts that bank the country roads-- moments of no visibility, like writing-- cutting a path on fresh powder, just letting thoughts take over until I arrive at a place where I can look back over my shoulder and see how far I've gone. Sometimes, there is no looking back, all tracks were quickly erased, and I found myself sitting in a parking lot listening intently to NPR . . .
And how does that radiocast influence me for the rest of the day? They were trying to replicate the voice of a soon-to-be retired reporter, and the voice impersonator was breaking down the reporter's voice phrasing and cadence and use of assonance and consonance and alliteration, and suddenly I realized it is always about poetry. This reporter's voice has captured my attention for years,and now he's retiring . . . How will I always remember his voice, and others will never know it? Isn't this the sad truth about writing, too. How will we be remembered ?
Time will Tell (Photo P. Tonery).