A Courier Kind of Mood

photo by brettanicus.

I am in a Courier kind of mood today. A no nonsense look and feel. But how long can I walk along the straight and narrow; I mean, really? In the end my feet always wander from the path to those glens set off to the side. Someplace secluded, where twisted trees can shield us from the blinding stare of the sun and the too-pure blue of a cloudless sky. Here there be shadows cast, where us lesser beasts seek shelter; bloodied rabbit, severed snake. This is merely shade, though; to seek a deeper kind of dark we must crack the crust, breed new beasts in the belly of the quarry.

Believe in the fickle fiend. I’ve seen him. He breathes deep draughts of air in the pit of my chest. Shuttling from corner to corner, feeling with fingertips the grooves on the wall, looking for a loose nail or cracked board that can be pried loose for escape for use as a weapon, whatever the situation requires.

Come back. Try to find my way back to the fold. Today I was going to pick up the thread of old stories I had begun but allowed to trail off. One is a completely unplanned story where the only structure in place is the geography of the town, Suttersville, and the characters that live there. Each morning when I sit down to write, I walk into town and see what’s up. Throw in an argument here, an affair there, introduce a body washed ashore or the reading of a will that leaves half the town aghast, the other wondering what was really going on between the deceased and the benefactor. Each morning, I settle into a familiar place with familiar faces but something not quite right, and I need to figure out what’s going on.

In my writing, I’m torn between the equal desires of both beauty and brutality. The ugly and angelic. In all of this — what should I call this energy, inspiration? — I seek an untapped oil reserve. I’m drilling through shale and granite. I’m finally feeling something from inside flowing out, natural and untainted. Would my writing teachers advise against this unchanneled method? After all, an untended garden is no longer a garden, but a jungle.

Don’t blame me, where else could I go? Even a simple, straight-lined font like Courier cannot reel me in.