FLOW WRITE: Exercises in Verbal Jazz: Writer's Intent
Writer's Intent
Flow Writing August 29th 2025
Writer’s Intent
I’m thinking about goldened light falling, dripping, and still I am nowhere and continuing in that direction. But I’m not panicked about it like I sometimes am when something s being timed. I kinda don’t care this morning as I know I have the option of disappearing altogether, at least for a while.
So I try to think about but can only see checkered light not the same as lovely dappled light filtering through chartreuse almond shaped leaves. They are fluttering like frenzied luna moths causing little spotlights to dance in the grass below. Thank God, I guess, for the image and for the imagination to perceive this display or I fear my brain would be devoid of all, both light and darkness gone, as well.
Even the meditation gong rings slow, reverberations trailing off like my thoughts, somewhere. My fingers on automatic piloting in cushioned taps on my keyboard. How desperate I must be for ideas today to be writing about the keyboard upon which mostly two fingers tap dance. No, I never bothered to learn to type properly. Perhaps I could go faster if I used all digits? Does one indeed use even the pinky? But what would be the point of increasing my speed, submitting my unskilled undisciplined fingers to arduous practice when there are no thoughts to accompany the letters or the notes.
I think I’m a little depressed this morning. The cold gray dampness surrounding me doesn’t help my mood. I had hoped that the robotic finger pressing would distract me from myself, but it simply ain’t happening today. So, thanks for not Yawning, or turning off your cameras to stretch or eat, or nap. I appreciate your attentiveness, even if feigned. I’m simply not snapping out of the doldrums in which I am wallowing. Whenever I think the word: “doldrum” I picture sailors from the 1700’s as if doldrums no longer exist. I guess that makes sense in a way since we are no longer so dependent on the wind to move forward or steer ourselves through life. We now have evonrudes or Johnson outboards to motivate us through the doldrums. Perhaps that is what I now need, a new engine, a whole new motor, not just an the accelerator. Perhaps it’s a new battery or a charge I should be seeking. A gulp of java…..Nope, that’s not it either because the lights are still working. Look, they’re still dancing under the elm tree. And if I look carefully, without removing my gaze for even a second, I can see a warbler, yellow and black, flitting from branch to branch deep inside the canopy. When I back up, slowly, slowly, so I don’t land on me arse, I can see the perfectly rounded canopy like the top of a pistachio ice cream cone, rich and silky against the cerulean sky that is splotched with fluffy white whipped cream clouds. Oh, sorry to interrupt where I hoped to take you but I can’t help but chuckle at myself for describing the blue dome of sky as cerulean. I don’t actually know what cerulean blue looks like while the sky in my head is that crisp bright blue color, that is so deep I fill my lungs with it and hold my breath for a second while I wonder if it can even be real. I discover, thank God again I guess, that it is indeed real, as real as anything else. And I’m somehow relieved. So, who cares, really if it’s cerulean or Robin’s egg blue. It is a wonder and up there just for me this morning. And at least I pulled myself out of this gray morning even if just for a second and I hope I brought you along with me. For that has been my intent as a writer all this time, not to be so alone.