The rewriting went a bit and then stopped. I know what I want to do, what I should do. Think I can manage when I get to the page? Not so much. I have high hopes for this weekend when I'm doing a writing run-away with a friend who promises to crack the whip for me if I do the same for her.
March 31--Kolo Moser, April. All you can see is their feet. A column of black topped by a rain-slick black umbrella like some rainforest mushroom. Even their hands are hidden so the only human part visible is their feet classily shod in shiny black patent leather shoes covered by creamy white spats. Whose job is it to clean the greasy street dirt off those scraps of wool flannel? Who stands over a steamy washtub rubbing them over the corrugations of a washboard, a golden cake of Fels Naptha soap at the ready? Do they think of the spats' owners click-clacking in the rain while they make the laundry music with board, soap, and tub?
Can you believe that today is the last day of March already? Me neither. Time sure flies when life turns to crap. I splurged twenty bucks today and bought myself a snazzy red wireless mouse for my new laptop. I am awash in high technology.
--Barbara
No comments:
Post a Comment