The plane is a my passenger from here to there with small
flutters of possibility. I write as if
it were to tell a story but the story is stuck behind the noise of
anxiety. The fear of failures, real and imagined,
pressing against my mind. An impossible
place of so many thoughts in so many directions. Job stress.
Home stress. Travel stress. All the stress of too much to consider and
too much to do.
The poetry magazine article on color slowly settling
in. So many ideas of expression and so
many poems/poets cited/quoted. A theory
of color and a coloring of the theory to give such brightness to language. Dorothy Lasky. Didn’t Dodie in part use this article or at
least the idea of the article for an exercise.
The red one or the green one or any of the colored ones? Colored ones…a colorful term out of fashion
for a distinction of race in a time of overt racial tensions. A world without color. A world of black and white. A world where shade and shadow are enough to
answer the questions of polite politics.
This writing on the plane is uncomfortable. The laptop too high. My wrists all twisted into a knotty tunnel
of discomfort. I persist fearing an
injury and enjoying the thinking and writing and being present with these two
activities. I wonder how Dodie’s will
be? I am sorry to have missed so much
and even sorrier to miss more.
Careful what you wish for.
This was the year of getting it done. It has become the year of turmoil and
upheaval.
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