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Meandering...
Lovely meandering day...sky pale blue kissed with streakes of clouds and sunlight, brisk breezy air, and the soft smell of spring. Slightly musty.
Actually opened a window. And took two meandering walks. One to the small rickety bridges spanning the Gowanus canal, which is no broader than maybe half a block in length. Still brown water in both directions. A few mallard ducks doing their mating dance, two couples, the male with his green, gold and red head feathers and the female in soft tinted brown, smaller, less noticeable against the water. The male follows her as she skirts away annoyed.
The surrounding area is old warehouses, dirty unkept, graffitti marked walls - the tags of kid street gangs marking them. A man kneels close to the ground with a 38 millimeter camera - focusing and examining his sight lines. At first I think he's a surveyor, later realize just an artist playing with the light.
Walking home, a five or six year old boy grounds to a stop on his metal scooter at my feet. He comes up to my knee in height. I mutter excuse me to his sandy capped head and meander onwards, circling eventually back to my own street after making a pit stop for a small blueberry pie. My later walk results in other assorted treats. It is dangerous to walk around my neighborhood. Both on the waistline and the pocketbook.
The air is brisk, fresh smelling, free and my head on the second walk is free of thought. The first filled with story - using the area around me on my walk as setting, it works best I think to write what one knows, use the places, sights and sounds that are most familar and slowly build from there. As opposed to envisioning a place one has never been. Yet...there is also fun in imagining far off places, picturing them in one's head, and painting them in words. A thrill I have not completely abandoned in my search for accuracy.
Turning off my inner critic is harder than I thought. But when her voice is silenced, I feel an odd sense of freedom of calm that cannot be described.
No longer caring what someone else has done or how it compares to what I've done. I'm learning we're each on our own journeys and have our own bits and pieces to add to the universe to show, unique and different. Comparing in the negative sense provides little benefit, methinks. It clouds the message.
The second walk, I think of nothing but the brisk air kissing my cheeks. The craving for sweets. The desire for cheap entertainment magazines. The ebb and flow of people all different colors, shapes, and sizes. Letting the negative thoughts as they come bubble up and flow out of me unnoticed, whispers as opposed to shouts, barely audible mutterings. And my shoulders feel light, my back oddly straight, and a sense of soft lazy sleepy fatigue. The first walk - I felt an urgency afterwards as if I must do something on such a pretty day.
Must make the most of this limited free time. The second...I just let myself be, just floated, just meandered, no true purpose, no true sense of time.
The light is lovely now. The sun not quite down on the horizon. A soft pink tone to the clouds and a feeling of peace, rest, quiet. Tweeting of birds.
The whoosh of water in pipes. The click of keys on a keyboard. The sunlight
filtering through my blinds in soft yellow and pink.
Lazy. Sleepy. Soft. Quiet. Peace. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday. I think.
Actually opened a window. And took two meandering walks. One to the small rickety bridges spanning the Gowanus canal, which is no broader than maybe half a block in length. Still brown water in both directions. A few mallard ducks doing their mating dance, two couples, the male with his green, gold and red head feathers and the female in soft tinted brown, smaller, less noticeable against the water. The male follows her as she skirts away annoyed.
The surrounding area is old warehouses, dirty unkept, graffitti marked walls - the tags of kid street gangs marking them. A man kneels close to the ground with a 38 millimeter camera - focusing and examining his sight lines. At first I think he's a surveyor, later realize just an artist playing with the light.
Walking home, a five or six year old boy grounds to a stop on his metal scooter at my feet. He comes up to my knee in height. I mutter excuse me to his sandy capped head and meander onwards, circling eventually back to my own street after making a pit stop for a small blueberry pie. My later walk results in other assorted treats. It is dangerous to walk around my neighborhood. Both on the waistline and the pocketbook.
The air is brisk, fresh smelling, free and my head on the second walk is free of thought. The first filled with story - using the area around me on my walk as setting, it works best I think to write what one knows, use the places, sights and sounds that are most familar and slowly build from there. As opposed to envisioning a place one has never been. Yet...there is also fun in imagining far off places, picturing them in one's head, and painting them in words. A thrill I have not completely abandoned in my search for accuracy.
Turning off my inner critic is harder than I thought. But when her voice is silenced, I feel an odd sense of freedom of calm that cannot be described.
No longer caring what someone else has done or how it compares to what I've done. I'm learning we're each on our own journeys and have our own bits and pieces to add to the universe to show, unique and different. Comparing in the negative sense provides little benefit, methinks. It clouds the message.
The second walk, I think of nothing but the brisk air kissing my cheeks. The craving for sweets. The desire for cheap entertainment magazines. The ebb and flow of people all different colors, shapes, and sizes. Letting the negative thoughts as they come bubble up and flow out of me unnoticed, whispers as opposed to shouts, barely audible mutterings. And my shoulders feel light, my back oddly straight, and a sense of soft lazy sleepy fatigue. The first walk - I felt an urgency afterwards as if I must do something on such a pretty day.
Must make the most of this limited free time. The second...I just let myself be, just floated, just meandered, no true purpose, no true sense of time.
The light is lovely now. The sun not quite down on the horizon. A soft pink tone to the clouds and a feeling of peace, rest, quiet. Tweeting of birds.
The whoosh of water in pipes. The click of keys on a keyboard. The sunlight
filtering through my blinds in soft yellow and pink.
Lazy. Sleepy. Soft. Quiet. Peace. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday. I think.