I'm working. I'm writing. I'm gathering and stitching and tearing and cutting and pasting. I'm breaking down and building up. I am here for the muse and the muse is here for me. Is she a genius or a daemon? Am I Roman or Greek?
I'm putting together this big unwieldy project - my Labrador Project which has no name because it does not know what it is. Is it memoir? Kind of. Is it poetry? Yes, indeed or it is somewhat poetic - like the fox we saw coming home from Nova Scotia was a ballet dancer - a little Degas girl in torn black tights with a real fire in her heart. Like that.
I've gathered all the sojourner blog posts, all the fb fragments and poems and I've begun to make a narrative of it. I need something to take to Pipers Frith, the writing workshop I'm going to. I need to send out about 5 thousand words by the end of the month. I have them - I have thousands of words but they are in strings, in ribbons, wrapped around piano legs, floating out to sea, ice skating on the canal. They aren't here yet! They're coming. Honest, they are. They've sent envoys to tell me. They are literally on the move, they packed their little word suitcases - though some insist on old-fashioned rucksacks, and they are taking trains, planes and dog-sleds to get here. One bunch of words was vacationing in Western Newfoundland in the Bay of Islands and they don't want to come - they want to live there forever - but they are coming. Just a bit slowly. They are mostly a dedicated lot, even that rebel gang in Newfoundland.
As they come they tend to bring the motion of their journey with them. They don't, can't settle down nicely on the page. No, like Bella, they hare off here and there, sniffing out more words I think. They don't just want to settle nicely - they want gangs and gangs and gangs. And I'm patient - god knows, I'm very patient. Well...with words I am. You have to be. You cannot force them. They are wild and any hint that you are going to try and colonize them or tame them or whatever and they are gone like the landlord's smile.
Maybe I'm a bit manic. I'm going to have a bath now. Talk to you later, when I'm done my corralling for the day. Tomorrow. Sometime. Yup. Here is the airport at Red Bay, Labrador. Some of them might be stuck there. The weather is far too nice to fly in.