Friday, October 19, 2007


I'm not in the habit of writing anymore. Letters in longhand seem a chore. It has been years since I've attempted to keep a paper journal. My livejournal isn't very creative these days. Oh, it's still full of detail I'll want to remember in a few years, but I might wince to read it later. Painstaking, excruciating, mundane detail. When's the last time I wrote a thoughtful essay? A scrap of something poetic? I cannot recall. I'd like to get comfortable with writing again. This seems like a good space for that, this little, quiet bloggy space. But today getting comfortable with writing again means reconsidering myself a writer and reading over things I've written before. A little bit stream of consciousness, a little bit poem, a little piece I wrote quickly just over four years ago and found today, while I was looking for something else:

deliberating larssons

If I were Karin
and you were Carl
you'd be smoking your pipe
painting pictures in your mind
maybe smiling
little ones upstairs
cozy tucked in cupboard
a mending basket set before me
and i think i'd have a
cup of tea.
idyllic, really.
or at least that's the
i'd like to know if the
children playing
were any happier than
she doesn't have
a group of siblings marching
up with flower crowns to sing
the birthday song and
my window sill is
nary supports a thing
not even a clay pot -
red geraniums.