In this house, on this morning… Forty-three fountain pens, pots of purple ink (Virginia Woolf before the stones), some with blue-black (my bruises in prose); fourteen manual typewriters, the elder statesman an Underwood Standard #6 built in January 1935… a library of over four hundred books; Leo Tolstoy, Frederick Buechner, Meister Eckhart, all within easy reach alongside a psalter… There are groaning shelves of journals dating back to 1987 where in a journal page I have stuck a perfectly-peeled beer bottle label (which meant you were a virgin)… Dogs are barking, Mr. Coffee beeping; be right back. Mick, be right… *I can’t read your mind…* Music plays, always, mostly classical (lunatic Scriabin, mystical Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich, the brilliant Phillip Glass) and jazz when I’m writing, lyrical when I’m freewriting — every morning the same sentence begins my day “in this house, on this morning,” — *Even tho I’m here I’m already gone* And I write in some purple ink anything at all that comes into my mind, so that when I come to my typewriter I can hit the keys running, so that when… *Our shadows remain even after we are gone* I sit down with HAL I get the words off Qwerty and onto the page and then… *I will write it in the sky, baby… *and today is today, and wherever you go there you are…*already gone…*and then…

4:47 “Even Tho” by Joseph Arthur

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Why ask?