Always this feeling that one should apologize for a creative abundance. An abundance of roses. $15.00 for 12 roses at the Safeway. Sometimes you buy roses in the dead of winter, and they don't open. Something prevents a full flowering.
"At times some small thing or a person is all it takes for someone to write or not to write."
~ Hélène Cixous
What is it that makes one dare? Cixous asks this. I also ask this. One begins, "with a certain number of aptitudes." But then she goes on to say that one must also have athletic aptitudes. "Writing is a physical effort, this is not said often enough."
All of these things we endure as creative people, as writers - the rejection, the silences, the silencing. The pure beautiful exhaustion of it. Which becomes part of the web of writing.
There is something in me that won't let me ignore the roses, their slow opening, the way their colours deepen then fade. This bouquet was one of three left when I went to the store to buy yogurt and apple juice. I'm going to see them through, all the way to the end, little by little. When the petals begin to curl in a day or two, and then drop off. I'll save those too. The way they let go. There's something in me that's responsible for their journey, such as it is, oblique and inconsequential.