dusty

oh, blog dear, i apologize. you fell down behind the desk a few months back, and while i intended to pick you up only moments after, i got busy, see. drawing projects, work, time with new friends, the urge to write smothered under so many little businesses.

now it is september. the little businesses are not any less than they were. but summer is so good at smothering all but one urge at a time. thank goodness for september. september wakes you up again, with the cool, crisp edges it puts on everything. including the edges of myself, and i see defined the hole in the middle of all of me, so very well defined, and the need to write becomes once again a singularly physical thing, like breathing, like being.

today on twitter i mentioned that i needed to move to some place where it was autumn all the time, so i would always feel that physical need to just write write write. well, where the physical need would turn into not just a need, but a compulsion. necessities are so easy to brush away when it's all a swelter and a sweat in long, dry, toasted months.

september tastes like blank notebooks, pens and possibility. and october tastes like poems. i can feel them, the fruit of them, ripening on all my inner branches. branches that look deceptively like blood vessels, or neurons. in a few weeks, they will drop willing, and i will suddenly have more than i know what to do with. bushels that i can't gather fast enough, before the ripening makes them too sweet. and they'll be jarred away on soulshelves, pulled out again in march where the bite of time and the tang of afterthought can only let the faintest hint of freshness through. not poems, but the afterimage of poems. the ghosts of poemnegatives, too old to turn into proper pictures.

but listen to me! lamenting the bottling of fruit that is still hanging pre-perfect on the soultree. inedible at the moment, but soon. soon.