forty words &/or no winks
��������� �����morning.something smells like faint smoke in here, a crisp smell that reminds me of sere and austere autumn, a drawn and pale-faced woman with a bun on the back of her head. it's jason, and he's singed the edges of a piece of paper that he'd drawn on. i can sort of tell. it's warm in the room and the red hanging is loosened to mask the invasive, prying eye of the sun. he must expect to sleep late.
no music right now, and a sort of thought process that devolves as the hours tick. the powdered, shifting snow is done moving now, and only budges when the insistent wind huffs along. it's not good for packing ... it's more like that "diamond dust" you always had for sparkles when you were in third grade and playing with construction paper.
it reminds me of a poem i wrote once :
"so then god is a / kindergartener making snowflakes out of paper
with glee, / unfolding them and scotch taping them / onto the blackboard sky of the world"
snow feels that way, a hastily made invention that exists for the sake of beauty. if it's not beautiful, it's sleet or freezing rain. not snow. the inuit have forty words for snow. i'm not sure if that means one for each different kind or just forty synonyms. a haphazard day, thrown together at the last minute sort of thing, and without any expectation at the culmination of it.
ideas for plays keep ricocheting off the walls of my skull. themes, thoughts, allegories, clever mechanisms and symbolism.
i've noticed that the veins on the back of my hand stand out more than they used to. sometimes i can even trace my heartbeat across their route, where it creates a junction across the sharp protrusion of my wrist-bone. then it vanishes into the flesh beneath, burrowing down like a shy earthworm.