Feeling the shortcomings of this mode, as if the fascination with the immediacy of recording and writing is not living up to the kinesthetic cadence of real life. Smelling the cracked grey cold of the day, the backblow of smoke out of the woodstove, the bite of toasted cumin. Feeling the ache of split skin on the pad of my right middle finger. Hearing a breath inhaled, a sigh, lapping water from the tree stand, a marble rolling under the stove. Tasting watered down lingonberry juice, then preserved ginger with orange, anise and salt. None of this translates.
No comments:
Post a Comment