a desire which has no experience
As a writer, I go about my day with my brain’s fingers at a blank document. Often I’m just describing stuff to myself, for example: the mismatched-sock bin is a vesuvius; one act of motherhood is fishing a mostly clean finger along the floor of a child’s mouth to find the frustrating mystery mouth hair.
As a blogger, I get out my camera at the dumbest times. Look. Here’s the day I stopped in West Memphis to find internet access because I couldn’t wait until I got all the way to Fayetteville to write a blog post. While I was there, I took pictures of myself at McDonald’s. Everything is fodder if you’re looking for fodder. Guess what I thought I would title this one – if perhaps I ever wanted to write about it?
McDonald’s, the new Starbucks.
Now listen. I know now that this is as dumb as home-made sin because the picture to the right looks like I janked it from stuff white people like.
I already have white girl bangs, which is beside the point.
This weekend, I was neither a writer nor a blogger, and it was scary to give it up, but rather than noting and noting for the public eye, I practiced noting for a private one.
This morning I feel rested, and I guess we always do when we give things up to God. Remember this, Mucky Mama, when you’re afraid to look away from your art or your work. You are endlessly before the Original Artist, and there is pleasure there that begs no input and only accepts it as worship. I want to be a Hedonist more to remember I wasn’t made for this world, to stop striving to leave my claw marks in it.