Some day I'm going to buy a little house on Writer's Block. We'll have highly literary block parties, playing proverbial games in the storied street. We'll toast our muses and muse on our idyllic days and daze and confuse each other with beautiful lines and pericopes. We'll laze in the sun to the buzz of spelling bees, amazing Grace with grace and confessing sins to cardinals in their nests. Good neighbors sharing neighborly goodies and re-imagining every slight detail, detailing every imagined slight, documenting all the while, whiling away the time, timing every line, lining up to be the first to last, the last to die, the one who lives to tell the tale. Some day I'll write of Writer's Block, the place that I called home.
It brings to mind, all this talk, the days I spent in discipline strict, learning to be still. Stillness is the key to smooth movement, and smooth movement, perfectly in control, is the key to prowess in the martial arts. In a vaguely Asian world my masters taught me the secrets, the muscles and moves, the ancient truths of mêlée. The greatest strength is the power to stand against the blow, to block the foe's worst strike. The greatest block of all, the culmination of years of unlearning and learning and coming to know, is the Writer's Block. "The pen is mightier than the sword," he said. "We know these truths, because they were written."
They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I've got the negatives of more than twenty five birthday parties, at least thirty pictures each, in this envelope. Let's make a deal.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
P. S. - Aphter: Seven. Sorry it's so short. I was a little distracted at lunch. Thanks for stopping by.
