Everything is such a mystery to me these days. I am middle-aged and there is so much I don’t understand. I read this sentence from Heather O’Neill’s lullabies for little criminals: The moon was out already and looked like a melting bit of ice in a glass of water. A few big snowflakes started falling here and there, all slowly, like spiders on their invisible webs coming down. Or this one: Jules was able to smoke in slow motion when he was stoned. The smoke came out of his mouth like ribbons being pulled off a present.
How does this happen? How does a mind think up such fresh images? To read someone is to plunge into another mind and realize how different we all are yet so much the same.
The next day, I miss-type November 100 rather than 10 and think this is what I want. I want the impossible. I do not want the reality of my sister’s death to sink in. Not yet. I need to hang on to her a little bit longer. At a time when I need a pair of arms around me I interpret X’s appearance into my life as more than what it is. But it isn’t and I realize that I need, I want someone who cares for me truly. When I finally decide that X is not the man I need in my life grief for Diana returns and I understand the meaning of X’s presence. He was there as a balm to my wound. Mind and heart. Fascinating pieces of equipment.
Here’s an interview with Heather O’Neill http://www.quillandquire.com/authors/profile.cfm?article_id=7521
Carol Balawyder
WRITING SCALES 