Everything is cold and gray outside...
Inside me, I am hanging on, pushing the words out, needing to explore the roots of my frustration, needing to bask in the warmth, needing to separate myself from the world, needing to figure out where my mind is taking me, just follow the course of the river, bending this way and that, leading me further into the wilderness where memory is interwoven with this exact moment in time.
It could be 1955, the day the Dodgers won the World Series and my mother let me stay home, and it was my birthday, and she gave me a bike and a puppy I think, and it was the best day of my childhood.
It could be 1998, when I was homeless in Northampton and drawing sixty bucks out of the ATM, or washing dishes at Sizzlin' Steak House, and sweating out the pain, or riding the free bus to Amherst and back again.
It could be right now, writing the feelings out as usual, in my office in Asheville, upset by some thing going on that I can't talk about right now. But I will find a way.
I will find a way to figure things out and also settle on a course of action. But right now I just need to listen to the hum of the heater and keep on pushing the words out.