clay

from Sat.

never do, what I'm supposed to.
Wrote 2,233 words of short story today (vignette I guess. I should call it a short idea, not a short story). Feel a bit itchy (is it just me, or do those words just seem to run together and make a different word?), to go research for it, so I can finish it, don't intend for it to be much longer, just needs some weight of place, some details. I can't see the table I am (he is) sitting at, how does it feel, cool or warm, rough or smooth? Is that dirt or clay under my feet? And what do these faces I see, do during the day, how do they get their food (clothes, shelter)? I don't think he is in Mexico, I think he is somewhere in South America, (but I'm not certain). I can see him from the back, walking down a dusty road, scorched in summer heat. What is the local of the remote village he is heading towards? I could go look it up (and find out). I am however, trying not to, as that would be going off track (and one thing, would no doubt, lead to another), I'm supposed to be working on the other story (the real story. this one is just playing. It has no shoes, it can't walk far). I titled it, Pottery, because Clay, makes me think of Clay Anken now, which is not at all what I want, but pottery doesn't have the layers of meaning that clay does, so really it needs to be called clay. (fussing over the titles of unwritten things, that is me)

This small idea has been around for awhile, (a.k.a., years and years) I don't know why I wrote it out today, don't know why it was buzzing around, talking to me, while I was brushing my teeth (didn't I have my ipod on?)? I had to write it down, so I would be free to go mess around in the yard, which was my intended project (If I hadn't, it just would have gone on in my head anyway, distracting me. I write better when not trying to, there is more flow, and I would have come up with parts that I liked, while digging and planting, but I would have forgotten them, or at least forgotten exactly how they went, by the time I got a pen in my hand. And knowing and fearing this, when stuff occurred to me, I would have had to repeat it over and over and over and over to myself, so I wouldn't lose it, I hate doing that, its like trying to hold water in your hand, you need to cup it and move it quick, and some is always lost, if your aren't fast enough, or get distracted, sometimes it all is ).
After I was done with words, I did do some stuff in the yard. I doubt, that what I did will go over too well though, as Bob will not be pleased that I moved three irises, a foot and half away from the house, away being my term, his would be close, as in too close ..ah it is Sunday now, and Bob is fine with the irises, I shouldn't really move the other three beside their sisters, (because you shouldn't dig up and move stuff in bloom) but I know I will never remember, and/or not be motivated in the fall, so it is now or never.
I woke up too early this morning, having gone to bed too late. But little lines, whispered and tugged, and I had to get my notebook out and write stuff down. Later, Bob complained, "what the heck were you doing this morning in bed?". I told him, but he knew darn well what I was doing, writing. I was writing. Whether good or bad, of value to anyone other than me or not, it will be part of my life, the jotting down of lines, of ideas. I have no choice in it. I can choose what I will or will not believe about it, but even if I were to decide it is a stupid waste of time, the words would still go on in my head, so I might as well write them down.
Thank goodness I found some money in my purse, Bob is refusing to charge, to support my, $4 a day, watermelon habit. But with my cold, it has been my favorite thing.
I think watching Pan's L and Stranger than Fiction have had a strange effect, Clay doesn't end the way I would expect a story of mine to end, not even when it's a bitty smidge of a thing, which is mostly just a single thought, dressed in wide brim hat and sunglasses. Yet end this way it does, and having done so, wont budge, like its own amen, so be it, so it was.
a very rambling post indeed, but I am tired of looking at it, so..

P.S. Sunday night now- and Clay is over 3,000 words, I still haven't done the research, and don't wish to, I am hoping I have written it out enough, that it is out enough, that it wont continue to be all squeaky, and distract me, as I would like to get back to Mikiyoshi's garden, filled with flowers, and echoes.