March 16th
The power is out again and I feel like I'm moving in slow motion. I've put a candle in front of the mirror and the light pours out of the glass, creating soft shapes of yellow and shadow. Mason Jennings is singing "there's something about your love..." and I forgot that he starts by saying "I'm coming home to be with you". I'm in a loose t-shirt and my hair is still tangled and wet, and this whole sound-tracked atmosphere makes me feel like I should be walking into the arms of a man who carries me carefully upstairs. It doesn't feel like there's a lot I can write these days without being completely frank. Masking feels overdone and story-bookish, which also makes it hard for me to publish anything at all. I'm overusing words like "dark", "Inside-out" and the ambiguous "heart", which aren't original words to overuse in the first place so I've given up on story telling. On the other hand, the nonfiction contains far too much "love" and phrases like "I'm sorry", "I need you and I'm broken" and "where the hell am I?". The themes haven't changed for a while.
The power just came back on, I noticed the kitchen light come on through a hazy window and almost simultaneously the candle by the mirror burst like a dam, hot liquid pouring through the luminous wax walls and onto the tile counter top. This isn't a dry spell, though, I'm convinced, or convincing myself, of that. So I keep the lights off and just plug in the music so I can keep Mason going further into the night, and maybe Mayer and Foreman too. My pen is still moving and a couple wicks are still lit, so I'm sure I can stay here a bit longer.
posted by Unknown @ 6:40 AM
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