Whilst I'm in the process of filling the big old pot with water for the pasta I notice how the sun finally decides to come out. It steals itself into the kitchen, dappling into golden splutters of light onto me and the walls and the blue ladle on the counter top. I know I should stop what I'm doing, embrace the light but I don't. It is six p.m. and the leaves on the ash tree are beginning to show an acceptance of Fall. They droop heavy with age, tired of maintaining their merriment they are ready to finally begin the journey, concede with the idea of blending back into the earth.
Footsteps on the stairs and the rain came all day long with brutal force and funnel clouds reported not too far from here. I saw grey on the horizon when I woke - counted the raindrops until I could not count anymore. Small lakes formed on the driveway. The wayward beagle begged me to allow him indoors. No birds sang. I clawed the walls, paced back and forth. Avoided the word. Avoided the pen. Looked at it in scorn. Threw it into the corner and left it there to weep. I inhaled anger and kept it inside of me until I knew it had to go.
I sought out the pen then, relinquishing my stance. Took it into my hand and slowly wrote out the words. They came like clumsy stones, raw and rough beneath my flesh. I persisted until I formed the sentences and did not bother to conclude them or try to fit them into coherence. All I was concerned with was getting them out. When I was done for that time, not done at all in truth, I stood back. The anger had abated. It had bled out onto the page and became something else. I felt a little like the tree then, even though the tree is beautiful it still has to change, to rid itself, to loosen up, to become the opposite. I think I did that today. I tried to turn the wheel of myself, spin it around with the pen in my hand, delve in deep and bring out something beneath the surface, something worth salvaging, something that makes me want to keep on digging.