I went to sleep last night too late, grateful to be done with A Little Life and immersed in Sally Mann's Hold Still.
I wrote for hours, filling in spots in my goddamn book (henceforth called MGDB) that called for something, anything. I remembered the early days of my life in the circus, the three-ringed one of the kids and me, Henry and Oliver and I on the trapeze, Sophie our Master of Ceremonies.
My true talent lies on the tightrope, though.
On my way back from the farmhouse last night where I'd returned after dinner to get two slices of toast for my breakfast, I made my way through the meadow (yes, farmhouse, meadow), sat on a bench and watched Mt. Rainier rise up through pink clouds, its snowy tip visible and then not. The wind blew through the grasses in front of me and was all I could hear.
