My most sacred childhood memories are of writing-- sitting in the backyard under the trees with my dad's old underwood typewriter, from his childhood. I can't remember any more blissful moments than those. Hours spent spinning stories in my mind and then tapping them out, letter by letter, with the summer wind blowing loose strands of my hair across my face. I was usually,no, I was always in my pajamas, and I did not want to be disturbed. I had no need of adventure or friendsip on these days, no need for sustenance of any kind. The ink and words fed me, and I felt alive, awake every second my fingers were touching those keys.
what happened? where am I? When did I diverge?
[Word: Diverge
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): di·verged; di·verg·ing
Etymology: Medieval Latin divergere, from Latin dis- + vergere to incline -- 1 a : to move or extend in different directions from a common point : draw apart b : to become or be different in character or form : differ in opinion 2 : to turn aside from a path or course ]
But I digress.
I want that again. I want that living in the 'pitch that is near madness'. I want the knowing I had back then. I want the deep peace of knowing who I am. How did I have it at nine, ten and not now? I feel words stirring somewhere very deep, almost imperceptibly, like they are cells dividing. I'm waiting for them. I don't know when they will come or what they will say. But I feel expectant. And ready.
I scroll the paper into place and wait.
