There was an elderly African American woman in tribal dress, shawl, spiral cane, and rainbow clown wig.
This was not even in the city. This was on the farm where I work, where, on the way to work, cutting through my shortcut of mossy lattice trees (a perfect spot to be kissed, I always think when I wander through it; an avenue for kissing) I now have to dodge caterpillars strung on invisible threads, wiggling earrings hell-bent on my face.
It is cloudy again, and I am having big ideas.
I am having big ideas about my poetry book. I am having them about my novel thanks to Allison, Maria, Rita Mae, Suzanne, and Lu. They are raising hard questions, hard questions like: when is she telling this story? Why is she telling it? To whom? I need to know. It's my job. I am sitting here in the Lane room, a beautiful high-ceiling library room with books and blonde tables and lamps and sleepy kids annoyed at my typing. Here I am. I am here all afternoon.
Next to the windows, there's a sign that says: You are welcome to open and close the windows.
I have two big projects now. I feel naked with one. With the other, I feel surrounded, enveloped like a sweater.
There's a lot to do, but for once, I think I know what it is. It's an odd feeling. It's like writing a paper, something I haven't done for years. I procrastinated. I complained. I whined. But nothing beat coming up with the idea, and going after it, digging in. I would stay up all night. I would write and write and write.
I don't want to be a student again. Except maybe of library science. Except maybe of circus arts. But I want to dig. I want to dig, dig, dig, until my arms are sore with thinking, until I tunnel out the other end.
Did I mention the avenue for kissing?
