"running out of stories, huh?" a friend told me yesterday. he meant my recent entries all taken up about the strange man and i.
i suppose i could write about this bird who has made it its habit now to score its breakfast in my window sill every morning. it struts like the jittery bird of my childhood we called burdik. of course, it has its own funny name in east coast english but i don't know it.
or, perhaps, the trees in my neighborhood, all the way to the botanical garden. they are now ready to go to blazes. as a poet said, all downhill into the fire for them from now on. but i don't know them, know them enough to care about their fates. these trees with the sweetest of names: maples, pumpkin birches, honey sycamores.
all i know now, with a certainty that rarely figures in my life, is that with the strange man, i feel i haven't borrowed more than i can return. don't ask me to explain that. i can't.
write only what you know, some short sighted writing instructor once said. with this advice, i am bound to know only the same things forever. perhaps.
but what is so wrong with knowing only this tree, this explosive, edgy tree that is my body, that vibrates easily at this man's touch? what is so wrong with being acquainted only with this easily spooked bird of brown slit eyes and rapidly beating heart? everything else, i believe, is just conjecture.
