the boys are in their bathrobes, fresh out of the bath. i’m listening to fleetwood mac (oh, stevie…) on my ipod, waiting for modern family to come on tv, my own blurry image reflecting back at me in the windows. i thought there was going to be a full moon tonight, but it’s a dark black night out there other than the neighbor’s yellow lightbulb, which glows across my yard from her back window. there’s a to-do list sitting here with those ten things on it that never ever get done. life is simple, so blissfully mundane. my ideas feel the same.
but i long to be cracked wide open.
i’m longing for a story. one with a start and a finish. a story that brings shining bright clarity to the present moment in that way a good story always does.
but then again, writing doesn’t even feel big enough. its little letters and words and spaces. its sitting still while a whole world unfolds on the page. maybe this is how jackson pollock felt before he took that can of paint and started throwing it around. and what a wonderful thing!