Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Mundania Again 

That the world grows, stretches, reaches for the sky. How the children push against each other, fill each other's silences in their struggle to be selves. The way the pollen turns everything green, after the rains have dried.

I figure it's worth noting, regardless. After all, it is our daily realities, the hard cold truths of nature and social strata settling, which frame the memorable moment, the bloggable gem. Without silence, our loud lives do not resonate.

A syllogism, then:

A. All writers write about writing.
B. All readers want to read about themselves.
C. Therefore, all writing should be about reading.

In the neighborhood the trees fill out into their summer selves. We watch the muscrat dive into the waterfalls, slide under the bridge like a bullet through butter. The neighbor's cow lows for her newborn calf into the night. When does the blogger stop metablogging?

Back in college my poetry professors encouraged me to major in something else, anything else: if you study writing, then you have nothing to write about but writing. It was a zen koan; I studied religion instead. Now I think about writing constantly, and write wonder at the world with wide eyes.

posted by boyhowdy | 8:51 PM |

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