What’s ours but the now? How I feel in this one skin. Cold although the sun shines, the winter sun. How I play Bach because his work eases words from brain to fingers to page. The seltzer in the water fizzes. Not every minute is as exciting as the dancer who moves her body into shapes not meant for mere mortals.

How I exalt that feeling of defying ordinary expectations. That’s why I try to reach flow through the act of making myself write. Yet today the genius is quiet. It’s just me, pushing toward getting anything down.

“Bring Him Home” from the “Les  Misérables” soundtrack is playing. We seek out deep feeling: the song and scene and movements that break the heart open. Yet some days equal lunch meat on really old bread while the weak winter sun starts to warm my skin.