Fragments From Floyd

Morning Pageless

I sit down for the morning writing without anything particular to say. Almost always, something rises up to the surface and I write on that topic, however silly, and hit send, baddabing baddabang. Not very often, but maybe more often as time goes on, I sit. And I sit. And nothing comes out. And I wonder if I am not a rag wrung dry of things to say, stories to tell, opinions to divulge to those who have never asked to know them. But there is the discipline of writing that goes on, unfortunately-- the ponderous duty of daily writing-- even when the well is dry. There are always words. They are not always about anything worth making public, no matter how low your standards for hitting the SEND button have become.

But how I hate the idea of the "morning pages" that will go nowhere. They are like pulling an empty chair up beside my desk in anticipation of a quiet conversation, and then talking for a thousand words to the empty chair. I feel foolish. Somehow, with the weblog, knowing that someone will come and read, and even knowing a bit about some of those someones and their writings and lives, I can pour my thoughts into words with some degree of focus and intention and purpose. Most of the time. Maybe not today.

Ah. There went somebody in a Land Shark-- it's too dark to tell for sure; looked like an 80's model Oldsmobile or such-- up our unplowed road covered in a half foot of wet snow. Definitely not four-wheel-drive. Here may be the day's post. I'm turning the outside lights on because I'm expecting a cold-wet someone to be walking back down the road to call a wrecker in about ten minutes. And ah, the sky is just beginning to lighten enough to see that the silhouettes of the trees say there is ice-- enough for some interesting photos, maybe, without so much that we'll lose power. A picture is always worth a thousand blog-words.

Why so blah? Is it the snow? I look across my inner landscape for things that would hold my interest and there is no color, no texture or detail-- not unlike the monotonous scene outside-- the muse is buried under thick, slushy sameness. Is it the long stretch of being alone? Not likely as this seems the norm here for the past half dozen seasons; Ann will try to make it home this afternoon. It is, of course, the time for the seasonal emotional slump I always pass through at just this time of year when I have not done the obligatory shopping and am torn between resistance to seasonally-frenzied consumerism and wanting those I care for to know of that care in some small, reasonable and not exorbitant but tangible way.

Well it is Friday after all... we are over the hump in the blogger's week and things sort of cool off as people become weekend focused. So, I'll roll with the punches. Today I'll take a few pictures. I'll enjoy the pup out in the snow before it turns to muddy slush. And I'll read the words of others who weren't having the kind of day I'm having today and got words worth reading on a published page.

Well. There's a half a morning page. Who's going to sue me if I stop there and drink coffee instead? See y'all later on.

Posted by fred1st at December 5, 2003 07:43 AM | TrackBack