Friday, September 26, 2014


Happy is reading.  
Happy is writing.
Happy is ripeness.
Happy is walking and having language enter your body.
Happy is tasting the first fuyu persimmons of the season.  

1 comment:

  1. For example, if I were to describe one time in our collective family history, I might use words which mean only specifics to me, but might also conjure some associations for you. This is the magic of language and the gift of one writer to another. Here is a paragraph about D. which talks about his teenagers.

    The intrigue continued for many years while in a burst of extended metaphor the young ladies courted their peers, pouting, asking for more clothes money, baking brownies. He and his sons play bocce ball and share a bucksaw. Drawers full of old ties and golf tees do not interfere with his midnight visits. Across the yard a small neon marker indicates fear, arousal. He proceeds.

    The neon in the night was a sculpture he made in the studio in which he worked after he got home from his long commute. The rest, like your fuyu persimmon, is there to be savored-- by writer certainly, by reader providentially.