there was a time about six years ago when i was a writer, it was integrated into my being. a writer writes. i write. i am a writer. the irrefutable logic.
it always brings up the memory of being the only girl in class, the only kid in class, natch, who got that an elephant, an ant and a kangaroo could be the same thing, if logic demanded it. ink on fingertips from too many books. a pine tree. a blue swimming pool. the smell of suntan lotion. a bean inside my belly. hiding inside a bear hug. ice cream cones.
these endless lists that became my trope. the slight uncertainty as the keys tingle underneath. editing on the fly. aiming for those nuggets of truth, reality, distance, clarity.
a leaf stands out, its deep brown shade incongruent in the nascent spring.
in my sitting room, there is a pile of neatly folded washing, the lingering smell of a man, a rusting fish, and a tiny carrousel which turns imperceptible as hot air does it's lawfully prescribed thing.
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