I have started and stopped this entry so many times.
Abandoned virtual drafts cavort on OneNote pages daring me to delete them knowing that I’m cowardly at such things. For once a word or phrase or thought is gone, there is no guarantee that neural firings will bring it back around again.
And sure, we can cling to the thought — unless is also disappears — that if that particular deletion doesn’t come back around it must not have been worthy of a place in the world. We may even have no choice but to ultimately cling to such a thought — though it be plagued by the fallacy of circularity — since our circuitry is largely palimpsest-wired.
But for the moment, I pretend the discards are just a few clicks away if I ever need them, so I can get on with the business of not needing them and write something more along the lines of something like this.
And what is this this?
I think if I knew the full answer to that, I wouldn’t need any this at all; I’d be a content ball rolling down the hill gathering no moss. I certainly would not be thinking about how unfortunate it is that stones doesn’t rhyme here and how weird the word gathering is, anyway, with its passive aggressive nature.
But I do know the partial answer, as it’s always been the answer: it involves finding the right words to properly channel my voice; my now Vermont-based voice.
And what does a Vermont-based voice sound like?
Well, I hope it sounds like cutting through chronically suffocating depression that has too often rendered my literary aspirations far too mute. I know it sounds like appreciation at now having a work-from-home job that gives me the option of living in a town of 7,000.
It is a duet of being legally married after 17 years. I think It just might be a chorus of opportunity. It is of course the same symphony of me.
But the green mountains are already adding a new movement to it.
And I’m doing my best to listen.