Wednesday, July 10, 2013

I can't seem to get further than beginnings today..

There was little she could do about the passage of time. It trod on, and she was forced to keep up with it. It tugged at her body and her face, changing them slowly into things unrecognizable to her. Wasn't she young? Wasn't she taut skinned and firm breasted and smooth as satin? She woke in the morning and when she stretched out she felt perfect, and luxuriant, and supple. It was gravity that reminded her gently of her body's age. And aside from the shocking incongruity of it, she didn't so much mind. Aging was an inevitability, and with it came marvelous gifts. She loved the depth of her mind, the breadth of her interests, the wondrous height of respect and love she had grown to have for herself.


Boris is wailing and lamenting. He stalks from the bathroom into the kitchen, looks at me, wails anew. When I don't respond he turns tail and heads back to the bathroom window. I don't know what has caused this sudden and relentless discontent in him. He has been indoors now for a few years and for the most part seems a very content cat. It's driving me a little crazy. I pick him up and scratch his chin, give him rapid fire kisses on his throat, and he purrs. But when I put him down he's back at it. Even catnip only temporarily curtails his vocal longings for 'freeedommmm'.


She sat quietly, trying to compose herself. To create herself as a symphony, as an epic poem, as a damned haiku. There had been a time when she had considered herself 'prolific'. The creativity poured from her then, keeping her awake at night and making her cranky when life interfered with the expression of it. Now, she sat quietly, willing it to come. Pleading with that deep reservoir in her to overwhelm whatever it was that was blocking her up. Creative constipation.