I’m riding high at my computer after some deep breathing exercises. If my laptop could float, it would. And the keys would advance with invisible fingers writing something I can only guess about. “The air is fire-dry. Light a match, touch it to the carpeting and watch your hand jump. Make certain the kittens are boxed so they can be removed along with you from your home.”
I have never had fire in my home, although it is something I worry about. While at Stephens College in Columbia, MO, one of the dorms caught fire and destroyed most everything if not by fire, by smoke. My friend said her toothbrush reeked of fire. Such a small thing to catch smoke.
Although I am paranoid about having a fire, I cannot think of anyway my house would become lit unless it was intentional and by me. I like watching flames, but only the safe flames, the flames that are trapped in a fire pit. Their colors radiate and I am reminded of popsicles.
Today, I am safely sitting at my keyboard in my bedroom/study. Sure, I see an armadillo at rest on the windowsill in all the glory of its armor. But it’s only a flash. I see it as well as I see invisible fingers punching in the impossible. Why look at things from one reality? There are so many more possibilities. Hang onto the sky. Wrap a rope around the sun. Haul it in and think heat. Writing is partially about making heat.
Mind Without A Home 