Sleep was sound but short.
I take a lot of heat for getting up at four. Most often, I am questioned what the point is. Today, I arose at three. Thinking something intelligent would erupt from my fingertips if I merely opened the laptop after making coffee, I gave up quickly when nothing remarkable became immediately available.
The one hour— lying awake— between two and three made me believe genius was bubbling around under my hairline, waiting to get out.
I’ve been wrong before, and this confirmed that wrong is trending in my tiny world. I deleted a few paragraphs and increased the volume to the dump-recovered Klipsch speakers. It drove Ellie to the basement for a few minutes.
I spent over an hour last night rummaging through neatly stacked letters and correspondence between my grandmother and grandfather.
The envelopes are intriguing, not because of the three-cent postage but because my grandmother kept the wonderfully written missives in stacks wrapped in decaying rubber bands, collated and indexed based on where she lived when she received them.
It made me feel slovenly in the way I manage my writing. It made me feel slovenly in the way I handled most of my life tasks.
Diagonally penciled across the top of many envelopes from my grandfather, Leora noted that the letter was answered and the date the task was completed.
On the other hand, my grandfather most commonly started his letters to her with, “I’m sorry that I haven’t written sooner, my love.” He then briefly described why it took him two days to put the pencil on the now yellowing paper. He was a typical man, at least when it came to that.
All the letters are in terrific shape, and the box shown is only a fraction of what is stowed within a steamer trunk in my attic. Then there are the crumbling scrapbooks of photos.
I’ve written about the hollow and empty apartment at the end of my house. My parents lived there for a long time before moving to a more easily managed place. I’ve taken over a back bedroom in there for a writing room.
When the Significant One is home, managing meetings via computer in the dining room, I find writing difficult. There are too many voices using terminology that I recall shedding like a wool coat in spring when I left behind any need for listening to others use terms like ‘not in my wheelhouse’ and ‘couched.’
Who came up with that one? My idea of couched includes the word napping. I digress.
The tiny bedroom was only for storage, and the box of letters was in the closet.
Once I moved in an old recliner, table, and lamp, I set out to neaten things up. I found the box and dragged it out beside my chair to go through when words weren’t coming out and entering the MacBook adequately.
So, I’ve traded modern voices that annoyed me for ancient voices that molded me. It’s an excellent way to learn more about yourself. And that is directly in my wheelhouse.
I’m now returning to the couch.
That’s all I’ve got. Have a wonderful Thursday.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,