Just, write

The remedy for writer's block is to write, and the block to writing is perfectionism.  That which rears it's ugly head once (well, most of the time) again.  The idea that whatever I present has to be flawless because there is an audience and they have paid money to be there...or even just because there is actually an audience.  But it's also a process, a place to try out material and see what sticks.  And if I don't start writing I won't get there at all, which is all well and good to say, but it's just talk until I put it down on paper.  Sigh.  Have now gone completely sideways with this.  An idea I jotted down years ago, before I even had email.  (If it stays in the same vein, that'll make sense.)

I see there's a workshop in self-producing this fall, maybe I can get this written in time to apply for that, though I'm giving myself a deadline of tomorrow.  I need to have other eyes and ears on it, someone outside of my own head.  And I need something written, even a very rough draft, before I ask people to give feedback.

Went for a walk the other night, around the lake, hoping to see part of the sunset. Somehow missed that, and it was getting dark.  Walked as far as the shell house.  During daylight, each light is surrounded by what looks like old cobwebs.  When the lights switch on at dusk, you can see these are great colonies of spiders.  Lots and lots of spiders, of every size.  Running up and down the highways of silk, up and down the walls and roll-up doors.  A whole other city that hides during the day, and takes over at night.  Thousands of spiders.  Another woman stopped to look and commented that they were smart, building the webs around the lights in such a way to funnel insects into them.  A clever hunting strategy.  It's fascinating to see, and yet I still involuntarily shuddered when I got too close, overcome with the heebie-jeebies at the thought of accidentally walking into part of the web that I couldn't see, and having it stick to me, being covered suddenly in spiders.  It still makes me shudder.

Not sure what I want to say

Oh god, it's almost 9 pm; I write to take a break from writing...deadlines and such.  A walk out the door, a whole new universe awakens.  Holes in the sky.  Impromptu band playing Holst by the lakeside.  Sharing a poem (my point of departure) with a stranger in a coffee shop leads to the idea of an intuitive choice to be good when present, so often drowned out by the static we find ourselves swimming in.  A million justifications for wrong action.  Truth in unexpected places.  Grateful for the depth of it all.  I still don't have ten minutes.  Untangling fishing wire, like thoughts, from of a tree, then touching my hand ever so lightly on a branch large enough to bear my weight, feeling the seemingly solid mass move in the breeze, like dancing, like breath.  The sun drops down, the golden hour.  Now in my room listening to the whole of "The Planets."  The air cooled quickly from the heat of the day.  Clouds formed like fairy wings out of nothingness, suddenly filling the sky where none were before.  I wish it would rain.

Birches, August 9/L Herlevi 2015

For dramatic effect, August 9/L Herlevi 2015