There are so many things I want to write about right now.
Like, I want to write about how I finally found the perfect way to hold my hands to give the best applause. But I always forget to take my rings off.
Enthusiastically, I'm getting blisters.
I want to write about how, when I come to poetry night, I watch people's hands as they rustle and tremble, and I wonder if it's palsy or nervousness and, if either, if they'll deny it -- kind of like how my dad won't get hearing aids; but more like how, the first time my brother was behind the wheel with the whole family in the car and we were on our way to the sailboat for the weekend and, when we got to the one-lane bridge and found oncoming traffic, I could have sworn my brother's hands shook the steering wheel, though he insists the steering wheel shook his hands.
I want to write about the boy on Tuesday nights who sings of love and who may just be too young to know that, when he sings about love he creates love and he is love and I love him when he sings.
I want to write about the homeless man who gives me orange things because they make me smile, and how he knows exactly where his children are, but he can't hold them anymore.
I want to write about how I miss the highways, though I love it here, and about that road trip I took and about that night when I made a simple wish for a rest stop and the chance to look at all these stars strewn like diamonds across the sky.
I want to write about how that wish was granted instantly with a point of interest .5 miles: a speech bubble on the road of life bearing a sign which read "On July 16th"... my birthday ... "On July 16th, 1988"...the DAY I was born... "a lighting caused wildfire decimated 15,000 acres of publically and privately owned land HERE..." Imagine, my wish granted by a wildfire which had raged it's first hot breaths even as I had sucked in the firsts of my own: a coincidence so spectacular, I'm still trying to get my breath back. I especially want to write about how I called my mother the next day to tell her she gave birth to a wildfire and her only response was "I know."
I want to write about how my lack of writing these days is due, not to a lack of things to write about, but simply to my lack of things to write on. There is a shortage of paper in my world. I've found my poems won't fit on post-its.
So late the other night I dug through my glove compartment before getting ready to make my bed and found, dusty and abandoned, this scrap of paper, having lain untouched for ten thousand miles, it holds the promise of catharsis...
But then, there are just so many things I want to write about right now...