As proof of time well spent, upon her return she presented him with perhaps a dozen journals, each one filled cover-to-cover with her neat, handwritten documentation of her travels, experiences, and contemplations along the way. Most also contained several inserted maps attesting to her itinerary; some with myriad stopping points noted along the various routes, some with many fewer, including a number where the resting place was nowhere near any travelled route but far, far out in the wilderness. It was these that also contained the most interesting entries.
Even though he found these to be of some considerable interest, he knew that—while they certainly had their value—the richest literary treasures were far more likely to follow.
He also knew that, having thusly presented her journals, she would no longer feel the acolyte’s responsibility to share any future work with him; no need to seek out praise or even acknowledgement. He knew that she would simply write, and that he—if he wished to extend and enhance his own meager enlightenment—would avidly seek her words.
Wacka Wacka Newsday.
Rama Lama Tuesday.
(Oy. Don’t ask.)
All the days these days
one slow-motion sad lurch long
—but never forward
Candle-light touches space,
places dark at distance;
in trance, our search for grace
traced tenderness in air.
I’ve Been Having Computer Problems, Lately
>>The Hypnotic Screen: Whenever it’s time to shut down the computer and get down to some non-digital activity—whether the activity’s chore-ish or even when it’s just-for-fun-ish—the damned Svengali screen pops up and says, “No. You are under my control. You must remain.” So: another half-hour, another half-day checking my email or looking at cockeyed political videos or look-what-my-dog-says memes or watching a couple of nitwits argue about nothing that really matters on Facebook.
>>The Recalcitrant Keys Zone: Conversely, when I have actual important keyboarding stuff to do—especially when it has something to do with my writing—nada. All the keys are there before me, glaring, but each of them seems to scream, “Don’t you dare touch me, you friggin hack. And if you do, I will not cooperate. You can fill a page if you want, but we’re gonna make sure it’s friggin gibberish, so don’t even bother.”
>>The Muse Is Calling Subterfuge: I do, indeed, have a life away from my computer, but the device seems intent on stealing that away from me as well. Sure, I need my sleep like anyone else, but when I happen to have a particularly interesting dream (and, being a prolific dreamer, this occurs frequently), the damned computer will NOT just let me go back to sleep and capture the dream in the morning. No. It demands that I rise and record it immediately. So I sacrifice my rest and my overall health to do so. But am I successful?? Noooooooo!!! Why? (See the previous paragraph.) Or maybe I need to do some housekeeping before My Beloved Sandra returns, finds the place is a bunghole, and finally gives me the old heave-ho. Do I get it done? Not always. Why? Because I thought I needed to capture an inspired thought first. But did I? No. Why? (See the previous paragraph.)
I could go on, I guess, justly blaming the computer for everything but…I’ve already spent far too much time creating this post, and The King Of The Computer Keys (His Majesty, The DELETE Key) is demanding his due.
More interesting, less loquacious 6WS posts can be found HERE
Listen to the music, he thinks;
the music will kidnap you gently.
Don’t look at the screen. The screen
is brutal. The screen is murder.
Kidnap is kind. Listen to the music.
Don’t try to write it down. Don’t.
It’s music. Just listen. The screen
is visible death. Don’t look at it.
Don’t. Listen to the music.
Breathe. Listen. Breathe.
These are the benedictions
of age, he thinks: even when
the fire burns low, there is
memory and imagination;
even in an empty room
I am never alone.