Hullo little one.
Perhaps this will be a letter of sorts? I began writing an essay before opening up a new draft. I got so far as to write two or three sentences but quickly gave it up as too complex a subject which also had no supporting evidence.
Should a letter contain a subject? Or at least a theme all throughout to bind the writing together into a whole, neatly tied at the end? I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes I'll just write everything, or a great deal of what is on my mind, and I'll find it leads itself back to the beginning, all neatly drawn together with no conscious effort on my part. I haven't done that in forever. I guess I lost my muse for a time, though that might be a melodramatic statement. Deep breath...
Anyway, I guess Summer is drawing near, if it is the passing of time you wish to hear about, an account of days; perhaps an account of the firsts of the season. I got my first significant sunburn planting my garden last Sunday. The work was good, the sunburn, not so much. It lingers on longer than I expected it to, but then, nothing seems to be exactly as I expect it to be; the lilacs, love; they smell a hundred times better than I remember them smelling. If only I could wear a perfume of lilacs... It wouldn't even have to be all year 'round...
Like I said, Summer is drawing near, the days grow long and hot, and the heads of the foxtail begin to dry out and flake apart. Bad news for me, I'm working a job weeding several blocks down the road, and foxtails are easier to pull out and keep contained when they are still green and supple.
The ground is drying out, muted colors creeping from the dirt up through the stalks of unwatered plants, the wide strip of weeds between our fence and the road turning brown and crunching underneath bare feet. Storks Bill curling onto itself while Cheat Grass drops its head-full of long seeds to the dust. The stream rages, dirty dun-colored, racing onwards to the North; snowmelt slipping away from our little valley to cities and towns beyond.
These are the things one notices as a product of being raised in the desert by parents anxious for the future, and empathetic to the living cycle all around. And there, I suppose, is my subject.
Yours,
Amoniel
Perhaps this will be a letter of sorts? I began writing an essay before opening up a new draft. I got so far as to write two or three sentences but quickly gave it up as too complex a subject which also had no supporting evidence.
Should a letter contain a subject? Or at least a theme all throughout to bind the writing together into a whole, neatly tied at the end? I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes I'll just write everything, or a great deal of what is on my mind, and I'll find it leads itself back to the beginning, all neatly drawn together with no conscious effort on my part. I haven't done that in forever. I guess I lost my muse for a time, though that might be a melodramatic statement. Deep breath...
Anyway, I guess Summer is drawing near, if it is the passing of time you wish to hear about, an account of days; perhaps an account of the firsts of the season. I got my first significant sunburn planting my garden last Sunday. The work was good, the sunburn, not so much. It lingers on longer than I expected it to, but then, nothing seems to be exactly as I expect it to be; the lilacs, love; they smell a hundred times better than I remember them smelling. If only I could wear a perfume of lilacs... It wouldn't even have to be all year 'round...
Like I said, Summer is drawing near, the days grow long and hot, and the heads of the foxtail begin to dry out and flake apart. Bad news for me, I'm working a job weeding several blocks down the road, and foxtails are easier to pull out and keep contained when they are still green and supple.
The ground is drying out, muted colors creeping from the dirt up through the stalks of unwatered plants, the wide strip of weeds between our fence and the road turning brown and crunching underneath bare feet. Storks Bill curling onto itself while Cheat Grass drops its head-full of long seeds to the dust. The stream rages, dirty dun-colored, racing onwards to the North; snowmelt slipping away from our little valley to cities and towns beyond.
These are the things one notices as a product of being raised in the desert by parents anxious for the future, and empathetic to the living cycle all around. And there, I suppose, is my subject.
Yours,
Amoniel
No comments:
Post a Comment