Lately I've felt a severe lack of poetry in my writing... or that images or actions or particular types of description have gone missing. A turn of the phrase, a captured image, and invocation of emotion or memory or something important has just... poof... from my writings.
I went to my massage therapy today, and it's painful stuff, so I brought my own CDs, for once. CeLena's glad to listen to new music and I wanted something to keep my brain off tendons and muscles that have locked into rigor. So I picked through my dust covered shelves of CDs and picked up Toad the Wet Sprocket and Sarah McLaughlin and got an impromptu launch through a whole lot of memories connected up with a lot of the fiction I used to write. Aiee. Lots of stuff there. And it looks weird from this vantage of Mama with Kid... but also oddly familiar as well in the case of Kid with Mama which a lot of kid fiction is from.
Ah. That's what's missing. I've been sticking so desperately to my real life that I'd dropped the other completely, and it now hurts. Interesting. I poked at it a lot with the Saiyuki anime and with contemplating bringing book 2 of Journey to the West with me on my month-long hiatus from my life... we'll see if something falls out. In the meantime I guess there's some music I should be listening to again.