Cheers everyone and welcome to Friday’s Morning Open Thread.
Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
Join us, please.
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Notes from Below Sea Level
Last night I visited WriteOn!, the weekly post for writers here on DKos, and was reminded of the energy that one can get from a community of similar focus—not to mention the joy that naturally bubbles up, Champaign-like, when sharing a safe space while immersed in a topic you love. Still, there is something so private (and isolating) about writing. I make varied excuses for my habitual absence on Thursday nights (to my family, colleagues, and friends as well), but that time is reserved for me to write. For years now (with obvious exceptions for emergencies), I help my son get settled for bed and then settle myself to write a few hours. I freewrite, edit work, sketch out possible research angles, or sometimes just fret about words themselves. But like a cruel möbius loop or mental masturbation, sometimes writing is simply about the act of writing.
“Just Beyond”
Carson McCullers was right—the heart is a lonely hunter. I can understand the drive to write fueled by peer pressure and deadlines, but years of failing have convinced me of the hand-shadow nature of my own clever distractions. Writing is a solitary endeavor that often blinders me to the world, shutters the doors, and bolts the locks on all but the seductive fullness of blank pages.
Writing—many years ago—on a train south from Madrid to Cordoba, the stowaway Roma (whom we hid on second whistle) emerged from behind my backpack stowed above and joined us five errant travelers. This beautiful young man, his cheeks sybaritic and wanting, took a Gauloises from my offered pack and unwrapped a small clump of tin-foiled hashish. Field stripping the cigarette, he deftly layered the tobacco and rerolled the now-filterless paper with the nimble, dark fingers of a Renaissance sculptor.
All the while, the hard-brushed girl from Marseille whose hand lightly held my thigh hummed Beatles songs to the train’s own, ancient rhythm. Endless fields of sunflowers shot past our window. This temporary collection of friends found peace in the migrant scratches of pencil on paper while Delft-blue clouds of smoke enveloped the cabin with a loneliness that can be understood only if shared. My eyes teared. My heart ached. I scribbled Dante’s infernal warning to those entering, closed and carefully stowed my notebook, and spent the remainder of the journey staring out the window at a point just beyond the horizon.
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My hope for the day is that each of you celebrates life in one way or another and finds peace in these turbulent times. Be well, be kind, and appreciate the love you have in your life.
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?