Friday, April 27, 2012
Writing in the Wrong Places
I can't sit on the sea wall by the lake and write about the water, or the way the sun warms my hands. But I can write about it while I'm sitting at my desk, here where I should not be blogging. Then I can write about any other place, really. It's like my mind can't write about what it's looking at, but where it's wandering to next. Here at this fake-wooden desk in an office with no windows, I can see each step of the seawall, each a darker gray and greener the closer they get to the water. Sometimes I see slender fish slip by. I think of mornings I've gone canoing with my dad, and the thrill and fright of turning over, plunging into the water and popping back out, smiling and clutching the side of the canoe. "Don't turn it over," he'd warn, frsutrated that I would purposely topple over, and not understanding the enchantment of the water when in the boat and the allure of the boat when under water.