We Write to Drive Out the Ruin.

Huge sunglasses from a vintage shop that smells like our grandmothers. Dressed in shades of grey, underneath a grey sky. The soft music, trickle of water, birdsongs.

The feeling of hot water on your face and delightful smells from those tiny bottles with the shiny caps. There are so many details to remember, and we never can remember all the details. I finally have the drive, again, to write. To keep writing and never stop. I would that I could speak beautiful words all my life, cover my own body in a cursive splendor.

Big solid stripes of white and blue on outdoor furniture we could have sat in for days. A Keurig. Decaf coffees. Leaning away from substance, leaning into my own substance.

Red and black flannel and ivy hanging down, resisting the weather, or maybe, embracing what we have. Is it so hard?

I remember sitting in this driveway. I remember nothing else mattering but us. Big sunglasses and a bomber jacket- never warm enough, always borrowing your clothes. A silver pick-up truck as we drove through our favorite landscapes with coffee and cigarettes and nothing but the miles ahead of us.

I am thinking now, that even firewood stacked up has a beauty like that freedom had to us. A great beauty, in fact. It is this- all things, no matter what they are- they can be everything. Beautiful, ugly, messy, simple, organized, complex…logs stacked with precision, taken care of. Dry, ready to be burnt. Or those same logs thrown in a rotting pile on the damp ground. Infested. Good for nothing.

So it is what we do with ourselves, with our things, with our relationships that matters the most All things possess every quality.

The world is golden all around The air smells crisp and dry with the crackling leaves. I remember, I remember, I remember what it was like before.