A bit on our natural image

The man without his left arm leans into the back of his chair as if it's an extension of his torso. Often, the chair is his shoulder, the weight of his whole side supported. Sometimes, it is merely a grip, positioned to prevent from falling. Rarely, it is a cradle, spooning him across and sideways, and it cannot be a comfortable position for any but him. And never is the chair's back an actual back into which he reclines.

Company Shuttle to Metro

The company I contract for provides a morning and evening shuttle from our local office to the nearest metro, which is almost cooler than having a cafeteria in the business building and a pond in the backyard.

He came home, saw the empty rooms, the mess left behind. Turned in his two week notice at midnight. Went to do something careless, something so close to loosing it all so that he could feel alive enough, above the weighty feeling of being left.
His first instinct is to leave it all behind, jump over it, start a new, start far a away. Maybe he'll visit his sister.

Morning, in the parent's kitchen, standing by the window to the sound of the warming kettle. Twarog and sugar and tears for breakfast. The dairy soft and a little cool, the wave of quiet sorrow aided by the melting crystals of sweetness on her tongue, their crunch on her teeth.
The apple makes her cry again.

He looks away when she comes by, but she is so impatient.
I will find you, he says. Go away. Please go away. Please.
His smile is halfhearted and falls, as if he has no strength to hold it. Eyes red, under slept. A meeting request with his manager, open, about to be sent.

I wish the elevator with the mirror ceiling would close on me alone, take me gently down, below, as I look at myself, myself, hard, like he must see it.
His pain grips my throat, pours down my cheeks.

Notable bits of yesterday

First hints of the sunset cast long shadows on the ground, but the trees are still a brilliant green against the grayish but bright sky. Drying puddles adorn the uneven asphalt, and only a couple of cars are left in the enormous parking lot by the technology building. One of them is my small blue convertible.

My approach to writing

Some days, words come easy - a beautiful sunset, the boats of geese on still water in twilight, the smell of amber from the remnants of the barn that burned a week ago in the blazing June heat - and they pour, magnificent, superfluous, barely ordered, tangled and unprocessed, like the overflowing awe that inspires them.
Most days though, I'm running too fast for awe to catch up. I am running from myself, towards the brilliance of busy breathless bustle of activity. No wonder there are no words. I don't give them a chance to lose the volatility of their birth in my mind, not to speak of letting my mouth caress them into form. Attention requires stillness. Life requires stillness.

At bookstore, 6/7/2011

My linen pants  have green grass stains, while the balding man in his seventies tapers his white beard and corrects his glasses; as an open book beckons his still strong posture. His nose is strict and his eyes sharp; he is handsome in his age as the overlay of palm prints on the corner of the second story window.  Cars waltz, backing out and filling parking spots in circling unison, paths crossed, accidents avoided. A girl in yellow and a girl in pink shuffle jump amongst adults, two upturned flower heads. The man in a brown jacket and brown pants shifts his shoulders, fixes his trousers, reaches deep into an inside pocket beside his left arm, withdraws a cell, shifts his shoulders again. Shakespeare weights down Poe, weights down worn black leather of a favorite bag. The ice in green tea frap  is long melted, cinnamon sticky fingers licked, the dinner bun eaten.