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2004-03-01 11:08:16 ET Ever sit down to write a journal and know exactly what you want to say but can't seem to find the right words? Or how about, do the words ever "get in the way" as it were? I'm having that trouble as I type, so i'm just trying to ease into it. I'm looking out the huge windows above the computer that I'm typing on and am just captivated by the way the sky looks . . .I started part of a new poem about five minutes ago. It needs work, but it's coming along and will be up soon. Seems though, that in the meantime, I've got something to say to the world . . . "Far above in the ivory towers I watch your 5 o'clock world slip by like a melting butter sculture of Elvis. In the quiet of the fading daylight the PA turnpike stretches itself flat, a panther waiting to strike. Every day, the commute seems longer; you ride your bitch and I wait on you. Every day the road seems more familiar -more an old pair of jeans; worn in, faded, comfortable in all the right places, highly predictable, perfect for every occassion - than aphsalt. (Fill in this space with your run of the mill, used up, tired cliches.) Becuase every day the road gets more familiar, every day the commmute just gets longer and I've stopped saying "I love you" before I leave. Is it familiarity? contempt? satisfaction? contentment? Is it the passing of time? Perhaps just a natural erosion? Is this how the Grand Canyon felt as she was being worn away? Such a slow, agonizing, passionless ripping of seams and connections? But, what a beauty she is now. A testament to persistence, she sits in the middle of the country yawning out her secrets. What was the quote that says something like "after the laundry, the bliss" . . .If that's the case, I've decided I hate laundry." |
