"I really don't know clouds at all"
No, I don't, and I'm not sure about reality either. Shifting sands come to mind, but I'm not on a beach
caught in the grip of an undertow (L. Cohen) nor am I even on the windy shifting sands of Dunes National Monument in Colorado (an amazing place). Just lots of incomplete song lyrics in my mind and the shift and drift that occurs when someone in your life-sphere dies. So I try to write. The wind blows the pages wildly and my favorite new ballpoint pen falls and slips right into the opening between the slats on the deck. Impossible to retrieve. How many pens have I lost that same way in 22 years! I haven't kept count, but it must be dozens. I don't dare use the good fountain pens out there. Suddenly the wind stops and not a blade of grass moves. Heat descends heavily and I search for my Chinese fan. Swish, swish, move the air. It feels good.
I send out a call to my friend in San Francisco (coming to visit in a couple of weeks) and ask her to buy another pen for me at Russian Hill Books. Retrograde Mercury will be gone by the time she arrives and maybe I'll be more grounded and not seeing illusions in glasses of wine.
Or writing endless eulogies that get deleted or crumbled up and tossed away. All beginning with the words: John, faraway, so close.
A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.
...enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not
Rumi
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