My writing this morning has been scattered. My morning walk normally centers me as I do walking meditation or other awareness tools. Instead there was a rock in my path (I noticed it, so I had to pick it up. Yes, I have a minor obsession with rocks.) It’s pyramid-shaped, pink granite with one side that’s very rough and the other two and the base worn smooth. Since I picked it up, all I’ve been able to think about are the men who’ve affected my life over the years. I squeeze the rock in my hand, and the edge cuts into my skin. Not quite enough to break the skin but enough to feel the sharpness and the pressure. Honestly, there have been many men, but most were barely a blip of a dalliance. Only three still prod and provoke me. or at least their memory does. Each relationship’s outcome seemed pre-destined, inevitable (do I believe in that, I wonder?). Or is it just the benefit of hindsight?

When I think of one, it’s been nearly thirty years since I’ve seen him. I have been working on a poem about our relationship for over a month now, and I just can’t articulate my feelings well enough to write coherently. Maybe that’s what I should write: how hard the idea of one person is to contain completely in one poem. Nah. That would be a cop-out. Am I showing my age with that slang? What’s the current way of saying that? I’ll have to research that.

I don’t have writer’s block, but I do get writer’s pinball — where my mind pings around without focus distracted easily by the flashing lights and bells. My thoughts stumble and careen like a sorority girl after a night out with sailors.

But at least I’m writing.

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