...last night you had me, where are you now?

I hate it when I have a really good idea or have crafted a great analogy or phrase... and I'm in bed trying to shake the beast of wakefulness off me... and I fail to grab a pen and paper... even though both are placed right... there... not far, but too far... there, on the table beside the bed.

Last night I finally had a little time to consider writing. The weekend was a blur of activity: traveling, building a fence, researching an issue for an annoying client, and grading some papers. Monday was more of the same, except I did take the time to watch 24. Great show, by the way. Anyway, in bed after that, I was engaged in my usual practice of channeling the brain activity toward peace. I learned long ago that stopping it or even slowing it to any measurable degree generally was beyond my control. Then the creativity matador was tempting me with beautifully intricate designs - words and pictures and completed projects that were jerked away as I charged. Nevertheless, I caught a few choice threads on my eyelids and vowed to keep them safe until morning.

In the shower, I remembered that there were things I wanted to remember... but I had forgotten. As if I needed a reason to stand a while longer beneath the hot water, to bask in the steam and smell the start of a new day. The hot water began to fade, and I grabbed the towel as what I failed to remember was probably swimming swiftly, spiraling beneath my feet into the drain.

I have pieced some of it together today. Scraps of paper with words and phrases and question marks. Such scraps adorn my dresser top, are found in unknown folds in my wallet, are in my sock drawer, show up at times in books where they mark a place long forgotten. There come, at times, days where I throw out a net of desperation and gather these morsels. I spread them around a blank page, and I contemplate them, pen in hand. Together, we kneel before that ominous, omniscient page and worship the possibilities.

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