Harnett-Hargrove

For RoM 07 - #1/9 Clutch and Choke

Some made up genre.

I had come a long way to claim what will be mine. It’s an orphan’s prize and I don’t expect any competition. A long distance so far. Seems more than half way, but I’m doubting that. The beginning lies somewhere on a horizon that does not look like the one lying before me. Calm is the line that separates way off on the horizon. No blips or bleeps.

But this has been the year of the rough draft. Rough as in cold pressed, spray glued, and sand tossed on. Beginning every project on shaky, uneven, rough ground. The inklings get massaged to rise like cream or sinking like rock into the turbulent depth where they become unretrievable. But, while below - like grit a chicken will eat - formless concepts will be silently bumping into other. Hidden unforeseeable ideas, working themselves clean and smooth. Next season they will be smooth river rocks, that life passes and meanders around easily. Rocks having paid the price by being born a chip from a large granite stone, and traveled into perfection.

I want the energy to run flush; a steady, slow burn. Not the noxious fumes that are apparent with the start up and subsequent even-out of a clutch and choke. I want the slow burn of not running too hot, but never sitting long enough to gather cold.

Today I have given up being annoyed by tiny threads and miss spellings.

 It is one of those smoke sky cloudy days. You can't see the sun traveling so it remains a vague daytime until it is dark enough to be called night.