There’s been a nightly singing bird outside the window behind my desk for about a week now, and the lovely lilting chirp begins a few hours after midnight, long before the dawn, and stops when the light breaks. Someone in my neighborhood has something to sing about these nighttimes. Not that some of the rest of us don’t.
Have much on my mind, want to write much, yet it’s times like this that I opt for the visual instead and remain wordless as possible. A friend years ago called it “ruminating” and so I guess that’s what’s been going on these past few days. I never liked the physiological sound of that word, though, “ruminating.” Reminds me of a gestation process or developmental stage of bread — rising yeasts and wafting vanilla, a good and wonderful thing when done well but something fallen flat and tasteless when a dash or deliberation is omitted. Actually, I always wondered about that friend, the choice of words, staccato voice, eyes that darted back and forth whenever food was before him, his description of his “soft and supple leather shoes.” Nothing too terrible, just a soft and subtle sense of my need to go silent for a while.
Later tonight I’ll try to write those words, the ones formulating, fomenting, ruminating in time with the melody of the chirping bird.
From, “Slingblade,” (“Stuart Drives a Comfortable Car… [But There Is Usually Someone In the Trunk]”):
“…baking the cookies of discontent
by the laundromat of your soul…”
Things aren’t nearly that bad. I just marvel at that screenplay by Billy Bob Thornton.