Yesterday’s heat has punished me for some wrong that I have perhaps recently done. The walking I did in the morning should have loosened me up for further activity, but I found myself rather floating in idleness the rest of the day as the sun progressed further over the trees beyond my garden. This morning I am studying the light coming through the roof skylights and I am expecting a startling dimension of correction.
I may just sit with notebook, park myself beneath the red umbrella beside the kitchen, hide from the furious sun, doodle with words and construct ideas into a more likely form of understanding. As I wrote only yesterday in a poem, some days ideas just come in abundance–but make such little sense, while other days my mind is full of sense–but has little or no imagination, no pursuit of art in my thought. I would prefer the days when thoughts are soaked in emotion and intellect, and I know I must make an extra effort to pull them out of this self-styled, gummy marinade.
I have been reading Norman MacCaig, Scottish poet, who writes a little differently than what I have been accustomed to reading. Yes, by afternoon I see that the heat will keep me quite close to any long shadow I might find, such as the one that is usually slinking along beside my house. I will park my ambition there where a car might as easily fit, and start up my quiet appreciation of this Scotchman. I am not so sure which of his poems should be the one that grabs me and keeps his name locked in memory, so I will flip through the electronic pages in my e-reader and sip a little of his wordage from many years of his career.
If snow were sunshine I would be, by now, buried in avalanche. Give me tablet and pen and let me work at what I am seeing outside of me with my one good outside eye, and make it converse with the other inside one that goes with me wherever I go, and often needs to be reminded to be quiet for awhile, like a noisy boy in a solemn library or museum.