To the distant sound of a distant loon on a distant lake

In Animals, Food, Local projects, Revision on August 8, 2014 at 7:35 am

Moving the fingers here with no clear  – idea? plan? direction?

Often, I end a writing session with a few words or a paragraph that starts another scene. A way of forcing the fingers to pick up at that point, whether they see the point to it or not. Last night, I ended a scene without starting the next. This morning : Something like waking the next day, and looking down in the pool, not even sure you want to dip your big toe into it. Water’s cold, this early in the morning, isn’t it?

I have a man a few people wish to locate. Firecrackers of the metaphorical kind going off in a number of lives. One-time lovers about to meet again after a long hiatus. Untold others bobbing in and out of view – whether any of them are worth pursuing or not: for the writer to discover. The writer can only do that by moving her fingers on a page or on a a keyboard.

The man some people wish to locate is traveling in a car. That much I know because that’s what he’s doing right this minute. But is it his car or another one? or a truck? or another conveyance. Is he heading north, west, east, south? To see whom and to do what? Since he’s the one holding my attention, perhaps he’s the one who’ll pipe up with a word or two while I wash dishes, pick green beans and start gathering books, pens and other personal belonging into one specific location in the house.

As for the long-ago in another time couple: I have reams of material on both of them. Whether I must now read through all of it once again, or whether the loon will pop up unbidden from an underwater fishing expedition, I don’t know. But the day is still clear and the air, still cool. Picking green beans, I’d rather do now than in the noon day sun or in a sudden downpour.


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