I always wonder when it will come back to me. Or not quite. Like a friend I grew fond of who had departed by ocean liner, one day, unexpectedly, almost as if it was a duty it was performing. Though I had grown fond, was even making tentative plans, I was also maybe a little tired of it, the routines, the failure to produce anything consistently thoughtful, and of the few pieces that got through, inspired as they were, there were still so many that languished like guppies out of water, dried dead by the too hot sun. What am I supposed to do with them? I try to repurpose them, but I find if I get no takers relatively early on, I give up on them myself. I walk away. So, I wait for the return, where it is off to some exotic part of the world having James Bond type adventures: dashing through the teeming streets of a bazaar, rolling across red sand dunes as far as the eye can see under skies like an abstract expressionist’s color field, communing with a ravishing beauty at a cafe table in Moscow as the morning mists part, playing the slots in Vegas. Who knows? Maybe it will return ready to make a bargain, a commitment of some kind, though I am usually the one to shy away from such arrangements. What is to say it doesn't look at me and wonder: where have you gone?
Where Have You Gone?
Where Have You Gone?
Where Have You Gone?
I always wonder when it will come back to me. Or not quite. Like a friend I grew fond of who had departed by ocean liner, one day, unexpectedly, almost as if it was a duty it was performing. Though I had grown fond, was even making tentative plans, I was also maybe a little tired of it, the routines, the failure to produce anything consistently thoughtful, and of the few pieces that got through, inspired as they were, there were still so many that languished like guppies out of water, dried dead by the too hot sun. What am I supposed to do with them? I try to repurpose them, but I find if I get no takers relatively early on, I give up on them myself. I walk away. So, I wait for the return, where it is off to some exotic part of the world having James Bond type adventures: dashing through the teeming streets of a bazaar, rolling across red sand dunes as far as the eye can see under skies like an abstract expressionist’s color field, communing with a ravishing beauty at a cafe table in Moscow as the morning mists part, playing the slots in Vegas. Who knows? Maybe it will return ready to make a bargain, a commitment of some kind, though I am usually the one to shy away from such arrangements. What is to say it doesn't look at me and wonder: where have you gone?