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My writing muse has escaped her cage and run for the misty autumn hills. Now the words will not come. I can feel them all stopped up in my chest.
Block is the right word. Perhaps I need my grandmother. Her little crocheted pouch pinned to my tomboy grubby white singlet. Frilled edges picked in boredom to tattered thread. I was a troublesome one.
Those pouches of my childhood filled with the fumes of Vicks. Take in a deep breath, feel the vapour start to break the congestion apart. Smoke the words out.
As it is the words taunt me from the tips of tongues, backs of minds. All coy, refusing to tell me what they are.
At least the photography muse is in song. You can't have everything all the time. Though I've had both for so long. It feels like they've broken up. Trial separation, possibility of divorce. I am the child of a broken home.
The photography muse clearly wants me to live with her. Outdoing the other parent with colour and light. Making quite a show. Look, she says, at the way that Autumn tree that you cannot see reflects in all that concrete and glass. Look at how pretty things can be when you choose to live with me.
Still, still .... I do so miss my words. It is always the aloof parent we chase after.
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