I've been talking about having an
evolving fiction writing practice. Someone brings it up, usually me,
and I say, “It's evolving.”
Um, what does that mean? I think
what I meant was that something magical would magically happen and
that my writing would magically become transcendent, and rock the
very foundations of my world.
Please
snort, if you just read that, because even I know how (… searching
for the right word … impossible? Overreaching? Grandiose – oh,
etc. ) that is.
Maybe,
though, I'm not a fiction writer.
Maybe
blog writing (can't bring myself to write that new verb that sprang
from the word blog) is my meditative, non-transcendent, but honest to
goodness evolving practice.
In
other media, I have been having a paint binge. It is SO GOOD not to
spend all day every day driving to Boston.
Instead,
I spend the morning getting up late, getting Emile to school,
meditating (as per the instructions of my wonderful teacher, Sokuzan
Bob Brown) and then its a seriously unhinged paint binge.
Everything
is wonky. It's like the floor fell out from under me, and I'm
frantically scrabbling at the walls, with paint.
Also, cats may seem like they don't move much, but they do. Every few minutes.
