quiet, quiet, ok

Crumbs from bread on the cottony, ugly purple bedspread. A poster half falling-down. A light bulb too bright. Drawers slightly ajar, draping wrinkled jacket, green neon clock numbers. Cords on the freshly-swept floor, magnets on the refrigerator, holding nothing up. Too many towels on the rack, paper on the floor, poem (that I don't read anymore) on the wall. October calendar dates, midway through November. Shoes in a collapsed mountain, opened contact solution, half-drained perfume bottle.

I like to write. Liked to write? Used to write? The compulsion is coming back. The good, solitary lines in the middle of math homework, the sudden, pseudo-interesting ideas. But I think I'm intimidated by the pen; I've been separated from fiction for a long time. How does one jump back into that?

I have fodder. Is that necessary? I once read an interview maybe, maybe just a quote - some writer claiming that no one is sufficiently prepared for writing until they're 35, because by then they've lived. (I may have muddled the exactness of that, but I'm sure of the idea.) That's once thing I hate about writers (or some writers).. they feel like they can make universal statements about writing, statements that are supposed to apply to everyone, because they've published something. I think it's bullshit, and strikingly pretentious besides. Carson McCullers was something like 22 when she wrote "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter" - an incredibly mature novel. Life isn't about the years.

I have fodder. Family fodder, an interesting family... who doesn't claim that? Love fodder, or an idea of it. A reserve of bitterness, to be dipped into when I realize I could be treated properly. Some change - of scenery, people. Perhaps an ounce or two of maturity. I know my faults, and I tango with them daily. I know friends and kind people.

[Speaking of kind people.. few really give a shit about kind people. People like interesting people. But think about how hard it must be to be kind. To not think about yourself for 5 minutes.]

Maybe it's not kind people, but kind actions. Some people are just better at them. No - it's a choice. Kindness or not. It's clear, but easy to avoid. Maybe we spend our time avoiding thoughtfulness...