Concrete: An Abstraction on the Cup
I don’t know how to explain my own writing voice. It’s not a thing I can measure. I don’t know how to say, “here it is right here; I found it!” I really only know when I deviate from it or start to not recognize myself. Voice is like a shift of air, how ghosts feel, or the sound of overtones over a choir, the note that is there that no one is singing. Voice is how the verbs express nonverbals, move us from room to room, from past into future. Movement in words acknowledges the couch and the space in between there and the coffee pot, by where the cup sits.
There’s a woman standing on her morning-tender feet on the hardwood floor, and in both hands she holds the cup, jolt hot, and she drinks it burning fast awake slow-poking her to the living room. A day ago she stood on a beach and even there she missed the creak in the floor and the low air conditioner hush of morning before the boys wake up. This is holy time, the gray of morning before the chaos of cereal bowls.
Now is just this cup and “where do these desires come from? Am I hearing from God?” Turn it upside down, rushing cold cup the dregs, “Am I poured out in my writing, this vessel metaphor?” Before she sits down even, she needs to refill, needs to hear it in her bones, “WRITE,” and she walks heavy-footed straight to the pot, pours that cup full up to the brim.
ON MONDAYS I’M GOING TO WRITE ON WRITING, WHICH MEANS THAT MOSTLY I’LL WRITE OUT SPIRIT BY PRACTICING A LITTLE WITH THE CONCRETE THINGS IN MY LIFE AND MAYBE IN A FICTIONAL LIFE. WE’LL SEE. IF YOU WANT TO MESS AROUND WITH THESE LITTLE PROMPTS, I’M ALWAYS HAPPY FOR YOU TO PUT YOUR LINK IN MY COMMENTS. WRITE ON WRITING; PRACTICE WRITING; SHARE IT WITH US. LAST WEEK WE WROTE ABOUT THE BED. NEXT WEEK IS ON THE NECKLACE. THANK YOU ALWAYS FOR SPENDING TIME WITH ME.
Also, I’m not so hot on putting a Bible verse on my stuff, but I do love my coffee mugs from DaySpring. I use them on the daily.