I cleaned the drain traps, packed my lunch, said goodbye to the kids and left for work. When I got home I took my socks off and went outside barefoot, spilled my beer, had to go inside for another. The cottonwood blooms kept falling like snow, the way snow stops and starts again, sometimes thick. When the dog ran through the grass it rose in the air and fell like packing material. I sat listening to the birds riffing off each other and it felt symphonic. I’d been beaten down again at work but it felt good. I agreed with where they were going and it drove my writing to higher quality. My gut was enflamed which sounds bad and looks worse. I came inside to write on my phone before starting the coals and reset the clock in the den. Tuesday. As a four-day week, it qualified as Wednesday, in a sense.

Categories: Memoir, musings

Tags: journal writing, pacific northwest, short form, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer