On Saturdays, I often use this space to go off-topic, leave books and publishing behind for a day, and turn my attention in other directions. Enjoy.
Everything is the web, and I am the fly. Each thing attracts my attention.
The on-again, off-again rhythm of the chugging dishwasher.
The low snuffling of the Boston Terriers under the wide and burnished table I’m writing on.
The crunch of the rice cakes I’m eating as I write. I’m holding the yet-to-be-eaten bit in my left hand as the right hand wiggles and weaves its tight little patterns across the long blue lines on the page in my composition book.
The bits of sun that catch and stick to the angles of the little windows in the french doors.
The deep pink orchid that rises, vulva-like, over me from its pot.
The deer that squats on the table, candle holders sprouting from its filagreed back.
The jumble of computer, papers, highlighters, keys, calculators at the end of the table where Jill does her morning business.
The confident sheen of the dark leather chairs, waiting for the next gathering that will fill them with diners, conversation, revels.
The paintings that look down from the golden walls bathed by the soft light of the little bulbs that sprout from the ceiling.
The deep plum color of the pottery mug that holds my morning coffee, sitting next to the tall column of rice cakes.
The red oriental stool in the corner.
The wall of bamboo fencing facing the french doors, just a few feet away.
The striped pattern of shadows the big vine throws agains the bamboo fence as it climbs up the wall to the latticework above.
The pottery cherub and happy sun that hang on the sun-dappled fence wall.
Light switches. Rugs. Dog toys. The newspaper. Each thing attracts my attention.
Everything is the web, and I am the fly.
My hand, wrist, arm keep moving as I attempt to free myself from the clutches of the web-spinner. It feels like I’m trapped in the web of my own attention.
Someday a time will come when the trap will spring shut, and although I may struggle, eventually the game will be over. Struggle and rice cakes and fences and Boston Terriers will fade to nothing. That’s it.
Look around. What’s more alive than this moment, right now?
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