A mimicry of snow shaves off of the overcast sky, flakes past the window; I'm inside, curled under lethargy, buried under a drift of work, fingers typing, twining, cramping. I have a solo at the end of the month; a collaboration in a maze of artists; and a series of words strung together for reasons personal, artistic, and journalistic. It's busy. It's crowded. I have to stay here.
I'm yearning for the crush of dead leaves under shoes. For the sharp, sudden intake of air, cold and dry against the lungs. For the expanse of being alone, of both belonging and yet being outside of everything else. I'm writing about the outdoors and yet settled in necessity, balancing a conflict of passions. Even as I love my work, I'm wandering.
I have so many half-started posts, Ello: it's a forest of partially-grown trees, retaking a logged landscape, still sparse and bare but growing, slowly, steady. Humor my absence, please, until I can slow down again, tend to the soil.