Woodberry Forest, VA; Blowing Rock, NC.
And a terrible documentarian!
This blog. And the half-filled, black-bound blank books in which I scribbled out my eighteen-year-old heart. And the word document -poorly formatted, unaccountably titled- in which I tried to impress the first miserable, blistering weeks of
motherhood. And the scrawled, broken bits of sentences I use to grasp at for my son's first year as it howls past-
And, over and over again, I lose my camera. I have no smartphone. I forget to write and forget to write and forget to write; or, worse, I shy away from it, edging past the white of the page like a nervous horse.
So why this circling back? Why do I keep worrying at it like a bruise, picking at it like a scab, trying to call up blood -though appalled when, at last, it appears? Why this futile, fruitless thing?
Because futile, yes. But fruitless- no. Something is borne, even if it's windfall, pointless, rot.
And because sometimes when I read, I read something so vivid, so piercingly correct, I know it's not just necessary but sufficient. That it's the whole point: those words, that way, right now.
And the only thing I can think might be worth anything is to stumble along beside those words, panting, yelping like a dog-
but at least my throat is open.