He was leaving for 2 months & she felt sad that she would no longer see the lantern light that each evening he placed in his window for her.
She wondered how she would occupy herself in his absence. Her days centered on composing poetic letters that told of her day & of her love.
Her love for him, rekindled after nearly 35 years, had woken in her a long-buried desire to write. His reappearance had been her awakening.
He had journeyed far, to a barren, desolate land at the end of the earth where there was no internet. He would not see any daily missives.
She didn’t wish to blog in his absence. Her posts were meant for him & there was no point if he couldn’t read them. He was her ideal reader.
She considered keeping up her routine. But on his return after 62 days he could hardly be expected to read the accrued reams & reams. Yikes!
What might be charming & delightful to read in 1 or 2 little bites a day would be an unwelcome, formidable avalanche if served all at once.
Besides she felt that she herself could use a break. How many times could a girl write, up in the aerie, nice walk today, now drinking rosé?
Perhaps she could dream up an alternate writing project for while he was gone, something different to pass the time, engage and fulfill her.
She pondered on her morning walk. A 2-month project. He set his mind to it and published book after scholarly book. Could she write a novel?
She’d think more about this intriguing possibility. For now she wanted a fun deft way to keep her blog going for the summer - not just quit.
She thought about his return. He’d hit her blog & she wanted him to be able to read a page or two in an easy go & feel pleasantly caught up.
She thought about him now. She’d read there’d been a mild earthquake last evening - hours before he arrived! Today he continued his journey.
The earthquake – what a strange coincidence. Good it happened before he arrived. He, focused, would shrug it off. She hoped he’d slept well.
Sky darkening. Soon - rain. Next door toddlers squealing, chickens clucking. 4 pm. Alaskan cod defrosting, to fry for dinner. Coincidence.
So anyway she remembered about a movie she’d seen, Memento. Backwards Down the Number Line, a Phish song. Reverse faux-tweets, à la Twitter.
She’d compose a series of tweets – 62 - & post them in reverse chron order so when the time came he could read down the page & get the gist.
Wow - that’s a lot of tweets. That’s like a Twitter novel, & she’s doing all on Day 1 to free her up for other writings for rest of summer.
She briefly considered series of haikus but even when 1st introduced in elementary school never loved the form. Proper respect 4 it though.
Has noticed that Bob Dole-like is referring to herself in 3rd person, Dearest as “he.” It is like a Twitter novel, in 3rd person omniscient.
Up in aerie, went for walk, sweater on shoulders, drinking rosé, KZE on, Coltrane Giant Steps, B4, Roseanne Cash, Take Chains From My Heart.
Do Emily Dickinson poems keep to 140 chrctrs or less? May check if/when run short of ideas. Twitter rule: 140 characters max, incl. spaces.
It would have starved a Gnat — To live so small as I-- And yet I was a living Child – With – Food’s necessity. 111 and not end of poem.
Following morning. Page hit from top of the world! Made my day, thank you so much darling. Sorry I didn’t post yesterday. Love you!