Night fades in like shadow during summertime. And the clouds with this rain block all light that may be emitting from the moon. Is it dark? Full? Waning? I know not.
Every day moves like glee, as I work at the farm, driving a 92-year-old man around in the durango, smiling at every driving "correction" he makes. "Use your mirror when you're getting into the lane," "Don't slow down!", "You're going too fast!", "watch it now..." It's more amusing than irritating most times. When we come back to the farm, I feel like I'm home, the 32 to 40-inch great danes come wagging their bottoms toward me, Gypsy (wobblers) nearly knocking herself over, she's wagging that damn tail so hard. The tail of a dane is like a pure leather whip. A fresh puddle of pee in front of the fire place. Newspapers tossed haphazardly over old puddles around the rest of the house. Blanket-covered couches against the walls, a black-and-white picture of Carlene (the head honcho, or the pony-leader) walking a pig by leash through falling snowflakes. She's smiling. To anyone who knows her, a smile is a rare treat.
I come home, sit in front of the blank screen, and wait for a story to hit. It never really does. So I write what I know: about the dogs, about Carlene, about my sister and how she gave herself bangs, about my parents and their terrible marriages. I try to steer myself away from writing about the junkyard I grew up with, or about my grandmother's bus. I write about Abby, or at least think about writing about her. I write about fake people I have never met, but who I want to exist, if only so that I might have someone to talk to. I write about all of my ex-boyfriends, over and over again, trying to puzzle out their issues, and mine as well, having dated them.
But mostly, I write like this: I write about writing about things. I know it must be done, but haven't yet been able to bring myself to do it.