I’m slow to return, slow to find the lazy dangling invisible thread adrift somewhere out there. Here it isn’t, there it isn’t, I’m not quite stretching my fingers out in their blind search, no effort expended, and I encounter little filaments that break off in my hand, unreliable and easily discarded. Like the threads snipped from a completed project. Like the mill ends of spun yarn. A curious amount, not quite enough to make anything, almost too much to give the little wild birds for their nests.

The effort and desire to make the effort are half the story. I know I can’t keep rambling derivatives and broad-sweeping objective views, tidy little parables like pebbles taken from the seashore, then spit-polished and set upon a shelf to gather dust. In searching I must find the reason and the need to search, and the use for what I find.

Write to create? Create what, and why? Small wrinkle on my forehead, a vertical line that will grow deeper as I age and grow more puzzled with the meaning of what and why. I understand the how very well, the motions are almost second nature; writing, sewing, knitting, painting, dancing, yes I am very good at the how, quite adept and happy with creating, but some small piece of grit… it scratches the surface, it mars the polish, it chafes.

Writing about writing, a conundrum, a backwater where the water swirls blackest and roots hidden deep beneath the cut bank threaten to catch, to drown. The rain-swollen river swallows the willows. Vertigo from where I stand. I’m feeling impatient and the weather is wet, saturated, windy, with handfuls of shore birds tossed by the sea right over the hills, circling high above me. Any cliché in a storm. Threads for birds’ nests.

Hello to the Radio.