June 24 2009 If The World Knows Them

Forcing myself to write is the only thing these days that gets the writing out of me. This here daily occurrence is the only assemblage of language I produce every day. Some days I despise it, others, I compose all day and savor my moments alone making that composition concrete. Really, really good writing days come rarely, spontaneously, and with no reservations. It's write now, or chug out something later.

A double shot of not-a-good morning. Unmotivated, the bug bites. I announce my intention to sit down and write, which usually accompanies a hug as if I were leaving and a cup of coffee, and the children watching a movie or playing outside. Instead, the pronouncement is followed with a tirade of responsibilities, and the morning leaves angry and incomplete, and unaccomplished. Why? It's the dishes fault. It's always the freaking dishes fault. See? All I did was choose to write instead of put the dishes away, or a slew of other chores. Instead, I didn't do any of the above. Classic.



Yes. I took a picture of my dishwasher. Macro, point-blank, 7x zoom, flash.