Bookmarks, burnmarks.

I’ve started a couple of entries here, ones I should have written weeks ago — one about the rain delay game from a few weeks ago, one about my birthday party — but, as I sit here waiting out another rain delay a thousand miles away, at a desk I bought today in a room just recently mine, I find myself inclined towards other thoughts. My plan had been to listen to the Sox game, but that seems to be a wash now: best to put on that pot of tea or coffee I’ve been contemplating, go for a walk while there’s still some light, maybe watch the sunset over the lake. I’ve wanted to read lately, to write, but every time I sit down to do so I find myself either immediately distracted or deadly tired: the bookmark remains in the same place, the pen stays capped, the entries are saved as drafts and forgotten.
I succeeded in burning the underside of my forearm just slightly while draining a pot of pasta for my evening meal, a teardrop patch of pink about three inches long that hums in the background with a gentle pain: tingling, radio static, distant voices, something in the ether you’ve just tuned in to, standing on tiptoes on a lakeshore peninsula to capture the strains of the weather forecast a hundred miles west, to see if the storm is really coming.
All you have to do is sit down for a while and not do anything else. If you stop thinking about it, everything just flows. And then, suddenly, it is raining, you are writing again.


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