Timeless, writing stories relatable today, tomorrow, yesterday, fifty years from now. A few lines of prose that grips your gut, makes you weep or howl with laughter. Words that spring from the page in bight blue ink, as blue as peacock feathers.
Timeless. Enduring. Like a number two pencil. A number two pencil purchased for a nickel at the bookstore at school, the bookstore just outside the principal’s office, up the stairs, behind the glass counter, the pencils arranged in a row, ROYGBIV, the colors of the rainbow. For a few pennies, add an extra fat eraser squeezed on top like a snug hat.
I want to sit and write and rewrite and never use up the extra eraser, with no regard for time, lost in the moment, lost on the page, lost between the lines in the story.
I don’t want to be timely.
I want to be timeless. Like the lyrics to a song. Always true.
Alive in a place alive with imagination and exuberance and endless notions. Made up words. Down the rabbit hole, in and out of weeks, and almost over a year.
To where the dandelions grow. Same as it ever was.
No clocks. No alarms. No reminders to go and do and think certain thoughts. A soft meadow to sink into, float above. A sky with no ceiling. Only blue.
Same as it ever was.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime