I am a small, hard, naked thing, cold inside and out. Gazing up at this denuded, unattractive, but not uninspiring tree stirs affinities as powerful as they are cliched.
So I’m trying to squeeze out some words, to just turn up and write, as taught by friends and mentors Lorianne and Satya and Kaspa. And it feels like trying to draw sap from this harsh, dry thing that pokes from an urban pavement. What trickles painfully out is rusty, greasy.
This is hard. I’m cold. I’m blowing on my hands. Trying to breathe life back into something, my breath floats whitely on the air and quickly disappears.