Wednesday Night

Thursday morning calls through this night, to this morning, which was actually last night, lost.

Wednesday Morning

Writing. Writing as. Writing as architecture, building, walls and weeds. And leaves. Falling and rotting and disintegrating. Like the word Monday, or Tuesday.

Sunday Night

Draft saved. Draft. Edit. Edit. Type, type, type. Edit. Draft. End
Doubt. Day 2. Edit. Day 3. Edit. Day 4. Draft. Saved,

Saturday Afternoon

I'm not the remote-control car being whizzed by the kid next door. I'm not the raven crowing a black line call to his distant mate. Or the big motorbike my neighbor is tuning - again. Or the leaves making long water sounds in that tree. Or the remote-control kid's father shouting faster, faster. I'm the shouting. I'm that sound. I'm the tuning of the bike. It's vibrations are my movements within flesh. I'm the crow of the raven as I move to shut this window, and the silence where that whizz was.

Saturday Morning

One with the other. The other, the other. One as that, that as this, this as one. Water as writing. Writing as water.  Not with or from, but as. Liquid. And early somehow, and brief. And not typing either. A held scattering: held in the cup of a hand and swallowed to the neck as it is held by the mind and hand to the pen and diluted by the page...  Swallowed, pissed, read, remembered, forgot, again.

Friday Night

Typing. Being typed. Hitting keys. Plastic hitting fingers. Hitting plastic fingers. And on....

Thursday Night

Blog. To blog. To boldly blog when-and-where no-one's blogged before. To ignore the night black against the window, and blog. To ignore the neighbor's noises below, and blog. To hum with the TV's hum and to blog. To fall back off the floor - blog. To suck-oneself  from one's shadow - to blog. And to beat the words to it - to blog. As I blog before I bow, and  blog before I blog. Post-pre-blogging....

To type with the blogosphere underneath these keys, to see if they'll type something new....