Sunday, January 29, 2012
I'm sitting at my kitchen table. My tea is cold, the last drink lingering in the bottom of a square ceramic cup, bone white. I've just reached one of those points in a book where there is no sense in reading further, not at the moment, no way. My mind was sunk into something viscous by that last paragraph or turn of phrase and now I need to pause briefly.
Some part of me is busy, requesting that I let it keep my thinking resources engaged for a bit, I don't need them anyway. I swirl the cold tea about, watching tiny tea particulates circle the bottom, last neglected swallow. I notice the music still playing, oblivious to how lost I've become. I find it engaging enough, beautiful without making demands. I sit back in my chair, meditation style, and wait.
I'm waiting for my story to continue. When a story has a lull you must accept it, you can't force it on, you can't bully a narrative to continue. You must wait until released. Anything else would break it into a different story, so wait you must, if you are to continue at all.
So I linger at my kitchen table, partially in control of my thoughts, waiting for some part of me to release my mental resources so I can continue a story that is heading in directions unspecified by standard compasses; prone to drift.
I can't guess why I've stopped nor where I'm headed but I want no change in narrative. I like this story. I wait, but not without purpose. A waiting like this is a passion, like the pause between kisses and thrusts. A pause like this is the authority a nights rest infuses into dangerous ideas.