Just a writing exercise to get rid of the buffalo sitting on my hand aka writers block.
CL
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Love the ideal is a stroll through Walled Rose Gardens, the fragrance of jasmine; sushine and daises and sickenly sweet syrup from Vermont Maple. Love the memory is something sequestered in the heart whether bitter, mauling, wishful or wondering, a picturebook keep-sake of all the feelings that shaped you. Love the truth starts with the fleeting caress of arousal, the fluttering of the heart-wings, the death of want and need, as well as ignorance and immediate isolation. The truth is clichéd in parable and maxims. It's painful, raw, passionate as well as slow like summer waves lapping against the sand, though stronger than water. Love the truth is seldom attainable, more so on the first swing, one must test the waters before they jump in with two feet. Most of all when it is true, it is tepid. And the tepid thruth stays with you long after the sensations are gone.
Jojo: The buffalo has indeed budged for the time being. I find that I am unique when it actually comes to writing, I'll sit and sit, with an idea and nothing will come, the buffalo will have squashed the words, but if I sit and just write, about whatever comes off my tongue I find myself again. Thank you hon, cheers CL.
I want to know whether the buffalo has budged? Maybe you didn't even try to be good, but tell you what, it still is. Blocks come to me as well but I don't spawn language like this. Poetic language, nicely minced to suit a prose.
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