I’ve not been writing much in any form these past few months. There’s been much ado in my household (my dear sweetheart was involuntarily “retired” just before the holidays) and I think the left side of my brain has taken up the whole residence of my mind…. there’s been very little of my usual creativity with words.
I’ve not been too worried. It’s a fallow time. A google search turns up this definition: (of farmland) plowed and harrowed but left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility as part of a crop rotation or to avoid surplus production.
Winter is often a fallow time. The earth has a chance to recharge itself. People too have these times, maybe even need then. Because I’ve had these periods before I ride with lack, the emptiness, because I know or believe the period will end, and I, like the soil, will be replenished.
I have several friends (and family) going through tough times: death, separation, illness, misery. I’ve been taken up with a role as the listening ear. Perhaps some of my creative juju is going into that. But as a result of these happenings the fallow period is ending. I wrote two beginning scraps a few days ago and then this:
To Be: La Brea
We circle the blackness, two agile beasts.
Difficult to say where it ends and the solid ground begins
both quiver in the sun.
The mirage of their existence pushes off our eyes
tracks the synapses into the brainstem –
is it danger?
or something more wicked that drives us to the edge.
Impossible to say.
The heat of the dark day shuffles our feet.
I can’t begin to understand what’s best,
the stifling air sucks oxygen
makes my mind less sure of anything.
You move abit, towards a deepening dark
sticky with turpitude. My lumbering attempts
to stop you stick
in the tar.
Let’s move away, the ocean is calling. And then,