pens, pencils, and Pages

There are writing implements, pencils and pens, scattered throughout the Camry – front and back seats, glove compartment, in the pocket of the console. In and around the room I rent as well – the only drawer in the fifteen-dollar desk, boxes of Bic and gel pens in the second drawer down of the flimsy trailer built-ins, on the bed (usually pencils), somewhere on the book shelves. Jean jacket pockets.

I grew up with, “You are what you eat.” and I could chatter long why I find that true in my life – bell peppers and peanut butter, yogurt and hot dogs. I also believe that I am what I write, and especially now these last seven or eight years, after half of the published books, the sentences and paragraphs and all the floating-alone words which fall out here – in this ‘Mountain Bench’ blog space and ‘Couch Surfing’ before. 

And especially in my Morning Pages. There’s a growing magic (loose loopiness no-mind) there, a thing I could never create or duplicate with intention. Three blank pages as host, all the crazy, far-out, look-in-the-mirror, down-the-rabbit-hole, scrambled, rock-and-rolled images painted in ink as guests. Falling out. Every single morning.

I’m thinking I’d like to mostly post some of those ‘Pages’ sentences here from the mountain bench through this week, and will note so daily when that’s how it goes.