The idea still is to celebrate life and its sensations. Keeping the smell of Spring, this idea must remain even beneath the weight of self-doubt, that skinny squinting interrogator whose bony fingers pull me down by my nose hairs (then clip 'em, fool). But no matter how short they are, he always gets up in there. That's what he does. That's his work, and he's good at it, and if it serves to underline my ignorance, that's okay. Life's zip must remain, and I should never assume that I know anything until it feels exactly right.
If done right, life makes the sensitive parts tingle to the point of pain, the feeling that, as the chainsawed, neon-vested city workers approach, maybe motivates the sparrow to sing of its home, "Tree-tree-joy (I sing and fuck, I sing and crap in my) tree-tree-joy." Then the cruel work of the saw, acceptably crazy because you gotta keep the power lines clear.
There will be loss, displacement, and its great sweeps of emotion freeze me, but soon I get back to hammering. I hammer words and chip off more than I should. It's crude, but it's my work. Work is important to a man. In a vulnerable moment, my work allows a clear view inside to anyone who's looking, who has been bitten and not yet dead within.
The idea is I can dance. I just keep the hips loose and keep the mind away. That feels good.
The idea is I can fly. Rather, I can survive a fall.
Labels: craft of writing, nature, work