When I cannot think of what to write I write poetry. My thoughts tumble in front of my mental stare like socks and shirts in a clothes dryer, and I pluck one from midair and place it on the page. Then another and another and another, until something I call "poetry" takes shape. When I feel as though I've put enough into it, I stop and read it. I always expect it to tell me something about what I'm thinking, about who I am. No. It's just words on a page, like someone with nothing to say took the time to write it down. When I come back to it later, stumble upon it while looking for something else, I always wonder, "What was I thinking?" In that sense, I guess the poems capture something of the moment.
I've always envied, speaking of ghosts, the ability they have to pass through doors. I'm not sure why, really. I suppose the only reasons to have such a talent would be to sneak around, to surprise people and such. "It's not really a talent," the ghost says. "It's just the way it is. I haven't the substance to open the door so I must pass through it to enter the room." I guess that makes sense, but I still think it would be cool to be able to do it. "The secret to passing through doors," my grandfather tells me, "is simple. You just open them first."
If you ever have writer's block here's what you do: Close your eyes. Now think to yourself, "I wonder who's looking at me while I'm sitting here with my eyes closed. I wonder if someone might be stealing my computer from in front of me. I bet they think I'm praying." Now open your eyes and notice that nothing has changed. No one even noticed that your eyes were closed. Now write something. Amen.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
