Back to Writing

I'm back in a town called Writing. Imagine it's a ghost town like you see in the movies. The hero steps out of the car and carries a briefcase. He's wearing a white shirt which is stained with dust and coffee. In his briefcase, he has all his writings. Easily there are 1 million words or more.
Gone are the people he used to write to. Gone is the podium and microphone from which he would read. A lot has happened in 9 years since writing in this blog. He separated from his wife and lives alone in an apartment that is all too comfortable. What will happen when he opens up the briefcase and starts to read what he's written going back 15 years? Will it just be a pile of dust? Will he have actually been honest in any of his writings? For now, I'm going to carry my briefcase in this imaginary town and perhaps gather blank sheets of paper so I can write anew. This is such a page that you are reading. I'll be back with some good stuff eventually.

To Taste, To Savor (Vignette Writing Exercise)

“Want a glass of wine?” I told her to make it a small glass because I wasn’t sure if I would like Cabernet Sauvignon. It might be good for tasting and nothing more.
The spirit moved me. “Make it a glass.” I wanted to savor the sight of her pouring wine. Wine fell from the bottle the way dresses fell. I saw her sideways. The dark dress almost made her invisible in the dimmed house. She explained little things she had to do with her cell phone and her computer, almost like an apology. I savored the gravel of her voice. One glass of “cab” rounded it out to musky seduction.
“Here.” She smiled with that small mouth of hers. I detected lipstick. Or was it wine? My goblet was large like a bowl, gracious. Did I really care if I liked the taste or not? This time of night was kind for silk, for dancing, for putting down your wine glass so you could handle the vintage flavor of love with your trembling hands and lips.
Outside, the cats howled and hissed at each other. Things were harder and more immediate with cats. No wine, lipstick, songs, and dances. Flirtation of the eyes and the honesty of moaning were what we shared with cats.
“Do you have music?” I wanted blue noise and red movement. She turned on piano and bass with a needle that contained that old familiar scratching, the scratching of old movies, old record players, a scratching not unlike that of tired cats at the door. The rhythmic snare and voices took over.
The singer, as if watching our dance of seduction, asked, “How do you keep the music playing/How do you make it last?” I savored its gravity as I looked her in the eyes. Blue. She sat across from me in a chair stitched with a marriage of red and blue wool.
“What are you thinking?” She furrowed her brow above a knowing smile. Something in my face I suppose.
“Oh, I don’t know. I…” Honesty was too white for me. I wanted to savor black, red, and blue. I decided to bury white words with red touch, to answer without breaking the mood. “Come here.” Within, blue flames kindled. I could feel within my pulse the desire to be truthful with my heart.
She was silent. Then she rose to her feet, putting her glass down.
We held each other and became one, not the way red and white mix and create pink, but more like pink falling into pink. As she held me firmly, her forehead grazing my nose, we both understood the power of silence; a silence so loud and powerful that we never noticed the record needle skipping.

And when you pick up the needle and lower it again, where in a song does it end up?
I let go once and she held on. Sometimes it's good being a needle and a record stuck.