I have been writing, just not here. Mostly in my head. Sometimes on napkins, in my cell phone's Notes application, on Word documents that I save under something cryptic so that I open them, months later, trying to figure out why I saved something as "stanley" or "chbps" or "storage." I have been writing.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, is a thousand words worth a picture? I am wondering. I want to find out. My husband would say definitely not. There are not enough words in the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy to do what one picture from an embarrassingly-named website can do. He prefers pictures. I am absolutely sure we would have never even started our whirlwind internet-turned-real-life relationship without my carefully chosen (but still reflective of my actual looks!) profile pics on Plenty of Fish. Plenty of Fish, for sure - but only if they have pictures, preferably ones of the subject in a swimsuit.
So yeah, shots of fish, fish in a barrel, there's plenty of them, shoot one, it's easy. What's harder is describing, conscribing, actually scribing something that in a split second gives you a feeling, a moment, a story. An intimate portrait. I guess this is the stuff that novelists do all the time. Writing is not just to vent. It is to offer a window.
Which makes me think of my window. My house has several windows, though none on the sides, since it is a townhouse. I actually wish it had more, or at least more expansive windows, since even though my home is organized in a longish, narrowish pattern, there's still a few rooms (notably bathrooms) that have no windows. But my window, my kitchen window, the one which I truly claim ownership of, vs. saying, "the window in the foyer," or allowing my house to have ownership, as in "the house has 12 windows," my kitchen window is my favorite. It is my own. I own that window - I've made it in the world. I've made it to the point where I have a kitchen window to look out of while I rinse dishes for the dishwasher. I have a little manual thermometer attached outside, with a pretty round face, angled just-so. My grandmother had one of these, too. I was so excited to find this one, to place it in my window, to stop there every day - do I need a coat? Can I go for a run? Can I wear my new shoes? I remember you, grandma, in my kitchen. On the sill of my window sits a moscow mule copper mug that someone stole from a bar. I was embarrassed, and then they left it at my house. Those mugs are 15 dollars! And this one was stolen! But it is beautiful. I grow basil in it. I love that it's not shiny, that it looks beat up. I am not too proud to have a beat up stolen mug on my sill. From my window, I see my neighbor smoking a cigarette and grilling chicken. I know he thinks that his wife thinks that the smoke is coming from the grill. He blows smoke in clouds instead of a thick line, timing exhales with lifts of the grill's lid, trying to disguise it. She'd still have to be an idiot.
I wipe my counters, I scrub the sink. I love a clean kitchen. Life is pretty good, with a stove to clean, a floor to sweep, a fading light throwing a rainbow through my suncatcher and across the floor, where the cat stretches and meows for a treat.