Tin Can Explosion of Words

I haven't done Morning Pages in two days so what you have here is a garbage can of words. They erupt, blowing the top off my shiny lid. They fall like ashes, knee deep snow that becomes soot when smudged. Words, like ashes can be deceiving. The can be hot. They can appear clean. They can be messy. They can be soft.

I use words the way a makeup artist uses different colored eye shadows during a makeover. I paint on adjectives to increase the lengths of my lashes and my sentences. Sometimes, however, simple is more. I can be classic or edgy. I can be studious or street smart. I can be a teased up beehive of ratted out, hairsprayed subjects, my predicates dangling like tendrils, bouncing like curls.

This is what you get when you haven't done Morning Pages. The words and ideas rage like torrents of possibility. The books in the queue all beckon, but there is a manic quality to the consumption of them. The need to write supercedes the need to read. There is a breathless attraction to the words of someone else, but it is the "tug at your collar" wish that they belonged to you.

I grab my pen and start to write. Without expectation. Without consideration. A crazy, careless, quixotic desire to release, let go. Sending my words out into the world like stray oranges that have tumbled out of a grocery sack, rolling just out of reach, into the oil puddles under a car.