Tuesday, July 7, 2009

You know it's summer when the fireflies are out

However, I have not seen that many fireflies this year...

Granted, I am at this keyboard most nights. But on those occasions I poke my head out it is nice to spy lime-green flickers hovering above the grass.

Spent a good hour on the phone with mom tonight, discussing ways to structure her next steps. Perhaps I should write a different book...

Concerning my writing, I am circling back around to take a fresh look at what the heck Heritage House is supposed to be. There are too many "interesting" scenes and moment, but not enough cohesion to this story.

So what to do? Pare down the tale and make it simpler. You have to clear back some of the excess and get at the real story beneath it all. I know you are supposed to rewrite when you are finished. But in this case, I am spinning off in too many directions.

I may attempt to take some time off from work to regroup on this project.

Then again, I have that bad habit of not taking vacation time that I am due.

A buddy of mine said the other day that nothing seemed to excite me and to certain extent he was right.

I do need that jolt to get the blood flowing again. And NO, I won't be baking brownies. I can't make dessert every time I need a pick-me-up. Snacks are not the answer.

What I need is to get the damn book finished and stop whining about it.

And then... and then I will have something worth blogging about.

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Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away