Writerly Canker Sore

It starts out with a static preambulation—if there is such a thing. Somehow you’ve got to get started and this is as good a way sans a definite destination. Just a vagueness, something enveloped in the low cloud cover below, or fog if you’re at ground level—or terrestrially bound—not cruising at 33,000 feet as I’m doing now, and listening to St. Vincent. Because why not. Why not this and why not now, here over the Atlantic Ocean, that is, a sliver of South Carolina’s piece of it, on the precipice of Georgia’s Atlantic—and Florida bound eventually, specifically SoFla, and then pinned to Miami by the bay—Biscayne Bay, on Brickell Bay Drive somewhere. That’s where I’ll be. But thou shall not—the endless knot / endless not. Something like.

These are some words to later shape, remix, smooth out into a writerly canker sore. Yes, that’s it — a writerly canker sore.

Thee old hometown.

What I’m Reading:

GUY: You know what else is great, by the way? Solid food. A Saltine. A sardine. We probably take almost everything in existence for granted. A million miracles at work in this room, right now, easily. You can almost hear them. Wowee. Your body produced 5 million red blood cells in the time since I said “Wowee.” You will produce two swimming pools’ worth of saliva in your life. (Very brief pause.) Use it wisely.

— Will Eno / Wakey, Wakey