I do not know how to talk about the things I do not know how to talk about.
Someone on the internet asks me if I ever get tired of writing about myself. Truthfully it has never occurred to me to write about anything else. It is not because it is the subject I know the most about, but rather as the years go by I am shown I am the thing I know the least about.
I study how to grow persimmons and the California aqueduct system, what makes the sea blue, and where one can go in the world to see the sun rise and set on the same beach. I make notes on line dried octopus and board planes without knowing what I will find. I read books on French wars and breeding poodles and exotic aphrodisiacs in African jungles. I watch movies from the 40’s I listen to records from the 70’s I read early English Saxon poetry. Everything else has an end to it. Everything I study is fixed. Nothing changes the way I do.
Put me in a new climate and I grow differently. I have something new to say or old to feel, either way. Give me a new lover and I turn myself inside out. Give me a view. Give me time. Give me roses to grow.
Someone once told me not to worry so much about the things I couldn’t write about or the ways I couldn’t write. That all I needed was a few good approaches under my belt, and I could ride those all the way home. The year is almost over and I am only growing older. I do not know what I will be next.