MMWUC for November 12, 2007
EXERCISE: Wake me up! My pencil is rubbing me out; my computer is deleting me; my pen is scribbling me into a unrecognizable mass of blue spaghetti. What happens to you when your muse takes off with your electrons to Aruba and you're stuck in Inuvik without a dog sled or toilet paper? I scream into the oblivion of an arctic winter's night, where even the snow white of forever is coal black: "Vampires can't handle the cold."
The flight attendant coos over the intercom: "Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Fasten your seat belts and relax. For the next three minutes and twenty seconds write, 'I heard the wind rush by and...'."
MUSINGS: It's Monday.
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What happens is that you write yellow words in the snow. Desperate times call for desperate measures. . .
The hissy words would turn bitter and cold lasting till the Spring and the return of the Elk, puzzled by their meaning and passing beyond in search of greener pastures. To the library, I must retire.
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