Passing Thoughts

I've been sitting here for thirty minutes, staring at the blank screen. I keep thinking and thinking -- an image here, a concept there, but coming up short. I keep seeing a woman lying in her bed, fetal position, weeping for some reason unknown, and I want to write about her but, much like her, I'm not sure what to say.

I find myself thinking about the artist in California sitting on his couch staring at a giant canvas -- a blank canvas, the same giant blank canvas he's been staring at since August, and I understand. I see shades of murky red and murky green in some strange swirling pattern like root and heart that have lost their place but, as with the rest of my thoughts, it comes to little more than a passing vision.

If this hand were able, I would paint my mind... and if this mind were able I would think of something good.

The clock is ticking and Hendrix sings, "the hour is getting late."

The guy next door plunks away at his acoustic, doing little to inspire me. But somewhere, about twenty minutes East of here, I know a mesmerizing musician fills his home with a sound I'd give anything to hear. I would lie on his living room floor and listen, just close my eyes and listen to the sound of emotion passing through his fingers onto a set of six strings.

If only I could ride that wave long enough to tap in and create something new.

And then I see the twenty-something girl that's made of gold, thinking herself little more than tarnished brass. And I can see her tucking in the three children she saved from Hell two days ago. And I can see her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she's going to care for them all, how she's going to make it through. And I say a prayer for them all because her story is far from over and is waiting to be written.

And I think of the people that fear "The Evil One" and I want to say something they should all remember because it has a familiar ring to it and it goes something like this: Whom shall I fear?

I'm wondering of my friend on the East Coast, finding herself lost in the world of academia, and I'm hoping she smiles tonight. I'm hoping she finds herself sitting in good company with a glass of wine and good conversation. I'm hoping she realizes that she is in the perfect place at the perfect time.

And I've been thinking about The Yellow Wallpaper and I'm thinking if I could have a conversation with Charlotte Perkins Gilman she might agree that today, though she is different, the woman is still trapped behind the wallpaper; it's just a wallpaper of a different kind.

And my little girl, fast becoming a young lady, sleeps away... as I should be doing. She grows a little bit more and changes a little bit more with each passing moment. And a clock of a different kind is tick tick ticking and I fight the need to panic because time is running out. Each day with her is a treasure and I am thankful for it.

And like my thoughts, time just passes and passes and I am unable to harness any of these thoughts for longer than a fleeting moment so they are written as just that -- passing thoughts. Sooner or later, I will learn to stop this brain of mine long enough to focus on the plot. But tonight... this will have to do.