Eleven hours of sleep make me a cloud with nothing to say. A cloud with dishwater blond hair, stinky breath and coiled muscles. One with a brain thinking about language and how I overuse words. That is what’s next: creating a new dictionary for myself to feed my brain.

Blogging every day is magical because I want to say something beautiful and important every day. But I can’t do that. Not yet at least.

Today I want to be a fast-moving cloud with many puffs changing shape. Something you look at that makes you name the cloud. But I’m more like the grey that covers the city. I pour poems and articles into my brain as fast as I can. All that comes out is this cloud.

Perhaps because I read this poem full of beautiful language like these two lines:

“Filled with old lovers, in the clutch of the chair,

you are a bloom of uncombed hair.”

Ah, we all have “blooms of uncombed hair” after waking. And I feel like a cloud that hasn’t bloomed yet as I prepare for my day.

See you tomorrow.

2 thoughts on “Uncombed

    1. It’s only practice. I liked your post this week about your walk home, how our jobs are to make ourselves non-essential. The thing I like about writing is we can always grow better at it. I also hate this fact. I’m reading Priscilla’s Long’s “The Writer’s Portable Mentor” and it’s made me realize I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be a better writer. Which is OK, because my kids need me less and less. Ack.

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